


variations on a theme

by woodironbone



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Everything Hurts, Gen, Gun Violence, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, Slow Burn, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Tim and Jessica brotp, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, broken people helping each other survive, lies upon lies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodironbone/pseuds/woodironbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting at Entry 77 and exploring an alternative outcome. First few chapters are direct narrative adaptations of entries and then it turns AU.</p><p>Jay survives but isn't quite whole, and Tim struggles to pick up the pieces of their lives in the aftermath.</p><p>Apologies, but this work has been discontinued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. noentry(1)

**Author's Note:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -feelings of derealization/depersonalization  
> -breathing difficulty from coughing/seizure  
> -brief description of seizure, I attempted to be as medically accurate as possible in this  
> -implied mind invasion

He stares at the park and thinks about that line, the 'stare into the abyss, abyss stares back' line. Who even said that? He doesn't know and doesn't particularly care. That's not his area. He went to college to make movies. Now look at him. Staring into the abyss. Maybe he should have studied that instead.

He's been sitting in his car, he doesn't know how long. Thinking in circles. Thinking about Jessica and Alex and totheark and Tim, and the thing Tim becomes. Tunnels and trees and towers and symbols. Round and round it goes. Blending into static in his head.

Enough bullshit. He can't sit here forever. Everyone disappears into Rosswood sooner or later. It's his turn, again.

He takes the camera and steps out of the car.

The walk is slow but he knows the way by now. Can't stop looking over his shoulder even though everyone's accounted for. Every _one_ , yes. Not every _thing_.

He drifts, half-dazed, to the mouth of the tunnel where so many things have gone wrong. Walking through it takes longer than the entire journey, just about, slow, faltering, echoing steps, constant glances before and behind, certain, _certain_ it'll be there, watching, waiting, just looming like it does.

It does not appear. He hurries to the end, the side he's never been to, or at least never explored, and he steps out into the unknown territory. It looks like nothing special: just more woods, more Rosswood. But he feels a chill move over him nonetheless.

He keeps moving.

He keeps _moving_. The first time it happens he's not sure, stumbles slightly and then, wait, did everything just change? Woods all looks the same after a while. His breathing stutters a little as he looks around, trying to gauge, recover his bearings. He inches down a small decline and gravity gets the better of him, his feet slipping on the mat of dried leaves, bringing him to the ground. He fumbles with the camera for a moment and then gets back up.

Was that _path_ there before?

Was any of this?

He keeps moving. He darts the camera side to side erratically, catching only glimpses of human remnants—the foundations of a shack, a cement portal leading underground. These do not interest him. He keeps moving until he clears the treeline, steps onto an overgrown path. The dirt tracks that used to run through it have been obscured by unshorn grass, but it's unmistakable. He knows this place.

He saw it in the tape he took from Tim, saw Jessica lying there at the edge, possibly right where he's standing.

He feels his stomach turn. He swivels the camera this way and that, pausing to look deep into the forest he just stepped out of—is something in there? He stares intently, but it's just trees upon trees, no definitive shapes. He turns back and _there it is there it is oh no oh no_ _ **oh no**_ he staggers back and it's gone again, no sign of anything, anyone, nothing but forest and empty pathway on all sides.

Fuck. Seeing things, again. He's shaking. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, punching in speed dial with trembling fingers.

It rings once. He starts moving across the path, toward what he knows must lie in the mess of trees beyond, even though that's _impossible_ , it can't be here.

Tim's voice answers, hollow tin-rattle quality on speakerphone: _“This is Tim, sorry I can't answer your call, leave a message and I'll get back to you._ ”

He wishes Tim had answered. He can guess why he wouldn't. But he wishes he had. Needs someone to talk to. Needs someone to forgive. Needs the only person he has left.

Doesn't know how to say any of that, anyway.

“Tim,” he says, “it's me.”

He steps across the path, his breath uneven. Checks the path to his right again, though still there is nothing.

“I watched the tape I took from you. And now I'm at Rosswood trying to retrace Alex and Jessica's steps.”

He steps back into the woods on the other side of the path and there it is, red, rundown, unmistakable, and impossible.

“I crossed through that tunnel, but now I'm at that shack that we woke up at before. But that layout is wrong,” (his voice breaks, his heart thundering in his chest), “it's completely wrong.”

He points the camera into the shack, sees the same mess of wood and garbage that he woke up sitting in before. “We've never been to the other side of that tunnel, and when we left here I _know_ we didn't cross back through it.” He circles the shack carefully, stepping to the side, where abandoned tires sit in a bleakly idyllic heap. “Rosswood has either shifted around, or I'm starting to lose it.”

Which is harder for him to accept? Which does he want to disbelieve more? He can't even tell anymore. He jerks the camera around again at the almost painful itch under his skin, the tingling of hair on his arms, he _knows_ something's watching him out there, if he could only see it.

“I don't know, maybe both,” he admits grudgingly. “Listen, just... call me, as soon as you get this.”

That isn't enough, Jay. It's never enough.

“I'm...” His voice shudders again, with guilt, with shame and regret. “I'm sorry. I know why you kept that tape from me, and we're not gonna get anywhere like this, working solo. So I'm gonna come over at some point tomorrow and we'll figure out what to do next.”

He takes a step toward the path and wavers, doubling over instead as his breath catches uncomfortably and he begins to cough, low but harsh. “I gotta get outta here,” he gasps through it. “I'm starting to see things that I _know_ aren't there, and it's starting to make me feel really sick.” His voice rips into another fit of coughing and for a moment he feels like he's going to throw up, it's so violent and acidic, his throat so raw. He groans softly and manages to grunt, “Call me back if you can.”

He hangs up, struggles to catch his breath, but it's getting harder and harder. He staggers into the shack's empty doorway. The cough worsens, thickens—he can't _stop_ , fuck, it hurts, he's so thirsty—he stumbles and sets the camera heavily on the floor. He has to get out of here. No, no, no. This is bad, he knows how bad this is, he's _seen_ what happens when—he has to go, now, now, _now_. Leave the camera. Doesn't even matter. He hoists himself up and propels himself toward the door but he doesn't make it, collapsing back onto his hands and knees, coughing harder until it hurts his abdomen. He throws an arm around his gut, clutching, and he falls, curling up in the dust and debris.

He's no longer fully present when his body starts to seize, his throat and chest constricting, his jaw working compulsively, his muscles stiffening. His arms extend, his back arches, his body writhes, involuntary, as his consciousness slips.

Hello, little one.

Do not be afraid.

You are looked after.

You are cared for.

You must rise, little one, when you can. Rise and seize your instrument, and take it back to the one who betrayed you.

Find him.

Do not be afraid, little one, little beast.

I will be with you.


	2. Entry #77

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -implied mind control  
> -depersonalization  
> -depression, cycles of self-blame, and suicide ideation

It's pathetic, how quickly his plan falls apart.

Tim is hiding (of course), jumps him (of course), overpowers him, easily, of course he does. Hell, it's a miracle Jay got the tape off him before—the only reason that worked is because Tim wasn't expecting it, and because Jay's scrawny and fast and managed to get his skinny little arm down Tim's pocket. Now is a different story. Camera in one hand, folding knife in the other, zipties in his pocket, and no preparation. Yeah, it was pathetic, but that's only because _he's_ pathetic, some small part of him, the back of his head, notes.

“Sit down,” snaps Tim, and when he sees hesitation he grinds it out slower, “ _Sit, down,_ ” but Jay isn't taking orders and he makes a wild lunge for the knife. Tim isn't fucking around either: intercepts him effortlessly, grabbing his arms, knocking him down. The camera slips from his hand and Jay feels a spike of adrenaline when he hears it thump on the carpet, _what if it's broken—_ but one moment is all he has to worry. Tim flattens him to the floor, one knee planted on his back, his arms pinned, Jay left to scrabble vicious but to no avail as Tim uses his own zipties against him, binding first his ankles, then his hands. Jay struggles, frustrated little grunts and jerks beneath Tim's weight, but it's no good, this is only another failure, another in a very long line.

“Get off!” half begging, half demanding, _“Get off!”_

Tim acquiesces but it's only because he's finished. Jay gasps, exhausted, as Tim steps away to pick up the camera, to turn it on Jay. Like gloating over a conquest. Do you feel the humiliation of it, little one, little beast, being made the subject of your own instrument like this, doesn't it make you burn?

Rage boils uncomfortably under his skin, clawing for escape, and he can't stop the flood of vitriol when it comes.

“You're a liar,” he snarls, “you had that tape for how long and you never told me—”

“It was in my jacket pocket the day we both woke up next to that shack in Rosswood,” interrupts Tim, cold and brusque, audibly in no fucking mood. “I've had it ever since. And this? This right here is _exactly_ why I haven't shown it to you yet.”

Jay curls onto his side, looking up at Tim, unwilling, incapable of understanding. “What are you talking about,” he says tiredly (part of him knows, part of him _agrees_ but no no, little creature, that part isn't allowed out right now, that part is closed up, locked away for safekeeping).

“I knew if you saw it now you'd blame me for Jessica disappearing and then that would make finding Alex even harder.” Tim's still pointing the camera at him but he's not looking through it, not filtering everything through the viewscreen like Jay tends to do. Jay is always half-preoccupied with framing, but Tim is looking at him directly.

Jay can't bear to meet his eyes.

“Just tell me where she _is_ ,” he rasps out.

“I don't know anymore than you do!” says Tim sharply. “I don't even remember the parts that _were_ on that tape, you should _know_ that!”

Jay breathes, opens his eyes, looks up at him. He does know that. He does. He does.

When he says, “I don't believe you,” it's almost heartbroken.

“Well you're gonna have to, okay, 'cause the way I see it there's two possibilities.”

No more heartbreak, little one. Jay squirms his way up into a sitting position, propping himself against the wall, feeling his anger, feeding from it.

“One, she is _dead—_ ” this with a vehement gesture in Jay's direction, and it hurts so _much_ , doesn't it, little beast, that he'd blame you for her, she that you vowed to protect and could not, that he'd drop her death on your small shoulders—“in which case there is _nothing_ we can do.”

“It wouldn't be my _fault_ ,” tears out of him, fierce and desperate, and Tim ignores it.

“ _Two_ , she is still alive, and if she _is_ , we cannot go anywhere near her, _especially_ not you!” Another sharp gesture, stabbing into him. “We could be followed, or you could show where she is on your camera, or something like that, and then she would get dragged back into this all over again!”

All this, the sense of it, passes through Jay as if he were smoke. “But if she's alive out there she could need our help!” he protests, and again Tim is on him before he's even done, answers to everything: “She has to be dead to _us_ regardless, Jay! We need to be focusing on finding Alex, because he's the one who's _actually_ responsible for all of this. Blaming me isn't going to do anything.”

 _Arguing_ with him isn't going to do anything. Jay turns away and carries on struggling, frustrated and tired. His wrists hurt from the plastic and his shoulders from the strain but he can't just give _up_.

“I looked up that address that was on the back of that picture we found in my attic,” Tim is saying as he moves around, gathering things up. He picks up the knife, claiming it as his own, and with it so much else. “It's a nearby college, probably the one that Alex went to to be with Amy.”

Tim seems to hesitate for a moment, looking down at Jay, flicking the knife shut.

“I'm going there and I'm not taking you with me, not like this.”

He's leaving. He's _leaving_ , little beast, and he still has your weapon and your instrument, he's taking it all with him, taking it _from you._

“Wait, Tim, just—” Jay jerks forward and Tim stops. “Leave my camera.”

Tim looks at him with open pity and disgust. “No,” he says flatly, and turns away.

No, no, no. He's leaving, he's taking it. Jay lunges, armless, unbalancing and tipping onto the floor. “Leave my camera, I _need_ it! _Give it to me!_ _Tim!”_

The door closes.

“Wait, Tim!” he screams, but Tim is gone. Tim is gone. Tim left him here alone, no eyes on him, no camera, nothing. Tim left him, just as Alex did, just as Alex left everyone. Jay listens, destitute, blood burning, as Tim's car fires up, backs into the driveway and gradually dies away.

He is your enemy now, little beast.

He always was.

He was always a liar.

Now you have no one.

Only me.

///

Tim sits in the back of his car with his back against his duffel bag and stares at his computer. YouTube's login screen stares back, cursor blinking a steady pulse in the username field. Slowly, uneasily, he types in _MarbleHornets_ , and then the password Jay told him, 'in case something happens to me', though neither of them really expected that something would be _you have to leave me ziptied on the floor of your house._

He's never had to mess around with anything like this—he's not the movie guy, that's always been Jay's domain. It took him a while to edit the damn thing, which meant watching what he'd had to do over and over, listening to Jay's raw animal scream as he demanded his camera, that's burned pretty well into him now, echoing in his head. Nothing else has happened so far so he just cut the video off with him leaving the garage. Had to add some lines explaining himself. He doesn't really care what anyone will think. Who even follows this shit? Who cares? There's the twitter account, but as far as he can tell everyone is watching for the story. Not because they want to _do_ anything.

Wanting to do things is also Jay's domain.

After poking around and stalling as much as he reasonably can, he starts the upload. The video's not too long, but the internet is spotty out here, so he just sets the computer on the floor of the car where he can keep an eye on it for a while. He scoots down a bit, resting his head on his bag. He's so tired. He feels like he could sleep forever. He wishes he could.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Jay looking up at him with all that anger, not the indignation and weary stress he usually exhibited, but real, dangerous anger. It doesn't look right on him. It makes Tim's stomach turn to remember it. He hates this. If he had just kept that tape better hidden. If he had put it somewhere Jay wouldn't have been able to see it—well, maybe it's useless trying to imagine that. Jay was determined to find something and he sure found it.

It's totheark's fault, really, taking his pills, showing off the tape. So much of this would not have happened without totheark.

There he goes again. Blaming everyone but himself.

He curls up, trying to get comfortable, which is a far and distant concept at this point. He hopes Jay is okay. This isn't a tenable situation, he knows. If it takes too long to find Alex he'll have to go back. At best Jay will get dehydrated. At worst, who fucking knows what.

The upload's nearly complete now. He lets his eyes flutter shut, replaying Jay's face, replaying the whole thing. There must have been something he could have done. If he'd pushed harder for Jay to get help. If he'd paid more attention. Maybe if he'd just been honest. If if if.

Useless.

He has to sleep. Let dreams fuck with him for now. Reality can have its turn again in the morning.


	3. Entry #78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are going to deviate from the series path soon, I promise. Bear with me for a little more setup. Sorry it's so short!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -implied mind control & depersonalization  
> (always let me know if I miss something)

There goes the liar. You watch them leave. Answering your note, but answering it alone. This is not what was supposed to be. This is wrong. Another thing broken, maybe this one can be fixed, but only by your hand. You know this. It is what you must do.

The liar will be dealt with later. You can always find them. You are good at finding them. You have their medicine and without that their deception cannot last. They'll come back. They'll wear their face again and understand what you're trying to tell them. They are no good to you now. A falsehood.

You wait until you are satisfied they will not return and then you approach the house. He went inside it but he did not come back out. You heard his cries. From the window you see him, wriggling and caught. Wrong. He must go as well. If he is not there who will show it so others can see? He must go.

You will have to free him.

The liar took the camera as well. This means he will need yours. You switch it on as you approach the back door and you step inside. He is struggling, does not notice you until you are standing over him, at which time he freezes, looking up, a trapped prey animal.

He is not alone. It is in him. You know the feel of It by now. Perhaps the liar sensed It as well. Perhaps that is why the liar left him here.

But that is all the more reason why he must be set free.

“What are you doing here?” he says, like he expects an answer. You do not talk anymore. You go to the kitchen and he is upset. “Hey!” he shouts.

You open a drawer. There are scissors but they will not work. He cannot use his hands, and you cannot do this for him. You must not be here when he is free. He will not understand. He will try to take your face and see what is underneath. That cannot be allowed. You will have to find a tool he can use himself.

“What are you doing?” he says as you close that drawer and open another. _“What are you doing?”_

A knife. This is much better. You pick it up, shut the drawer, and walk back to him.

He sees the knife and does not understand. He struggles harder, tries to shrink away, silly thing, there's nowhere to go.

“No,” he says. You step closer. “Don't!”

He is breathing so fast, so afraid. But you don't mean to hurt him. Doesn't he know that by now?

You drop the knife. He looks at it, then at you. You set down your camera as well. It is his now.

You walk away.

“Hey, hey, wait!” he calls. You hear him shifting around, grunting, getting at the knife. It will take him too long to get free, by then you will be gone. _“Wait!”_ he says anyway.

You pause by the mirror to leave him a message. It is important that he understand that time is out. He must go, and he must go soon.

You leave him there. The rest is in his hands.

And there is more waiting for you at Benedict Hall.

\\\\\

It's fucking awkward cutting through zipties from behind, his hand twisted uncomfortably until he can get at a good sawing angle. It's probably some off-brand miracle that he doesn't cut himself. He goes as fast as he can, not wanting to let totheark get away, even knowing it's probably too late. He's coughing so much he can't hear whether or not the door closed again. Wrists freed, he slices off the binding around his ankles with much greater ease and climbs to his feet, grabbing the new camera and going immediately to the window.

There's no one that he can see, of course. He starts checking other rooms, still coughing as he goes, but no one's waiting for him anywhere. The cough is getting worse. He staggers into Tim's bathroom, flicks on the light, catching himself on the edge of the sink. There's an empty pill bottle there—pills, that's what he needs, Tim's pills. Tim said they helped him before. There have to be some left. He hobbles to the cabinet but it's just empty bottles everywhere, nothing useful. He throws one of them aside with an angry grunt and drags himself back out. His flashlight's still on the counter from when he left it before. He grabs that and starts loping toward the door.

_LAST CHANCE_ , says the mirror, signed with that symbol.

His exhalations are sounding more and more like the growling of a rabid dog, but the cough quiets mercifully as he gets outside and runs, runs as fast as he can for his car, parked a block away. He reaches it, lungs burning, and the coughing resumes as he slumps against it. He unlocks the driver door with shaking hands and throws himself in, curling into the seat with the camera discarded beside him. He doesn't have much time, but he can't leave yet. He has to get this video uploaded and get himself back together. Then he has to go. Find 79 South Creek Road. Find Tim. Find Alex. And end this.

These objectives burn bright and harsh in his head, blocking out everything else. There _is_ nothing else. There is only this.

You must hurry, little one.

And when you need me, I will be here.


	4. noentry(2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, but finally we begin our deviation from the original storyline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -choking/strangulation  
> -physical assault and resultant pain  
> -threat of gun violence

Tomorrow, the groundskeeper said. Well by tomorrow Jay's gonna need attention. Tim knows he didn't really think this through at all, it was sort of a Jay-level plan, wasn't it? Just leave him on the floor and who knows _how_ long it'll take to find Alex, good thinking, Tim. He needs to get into Benedict Hall _today_ if he can, but already it's not looking promising, and even if he did, what would he do? Just the camera strapped to his chest and the stupid tiny knife he took from Jay, what's that going to accomplish against Totheark or Alex and their collective gun?

Whatever. He's out here now and he can't exactly turn right around. He'll just have to move as fast and as efficiently as he can.

All these fucking windows are _nailed shut,_ and the sun is gonna start going down within the hour. This is going great.

He climbs back down the fire exit and drops onto the ground. He can't do this in the dark. That'd be the kind of dumbshit thing Jay would do, and it's not his style. Frustrated, twitchy, and dehydrated, he starts back to where his car is parked.

He drives a ways out, doesn't want to stay right on campus with Alex or Totheark lurking around. Parks in the corner of a nearby empty lot and crawls into the back again.

God he wishes it was easier to fall sleep.

An hour after the sun's gone down he sits up for his third coughing fit of the night. This is getting really bad. He stocked up pretty well on water but it's already running low. What he needs is his medicine, but he's not getting that back until he catches up with Totheark. Once the fit passes he rests his head against the front seat, staring at his feet for a moment. He leans over and picks up his computer.

This is dumb. What's he going to do? Check his email? Make a Facebook account? It's already booting up but he knows there's nothing there for him. Old entries he could rewatch, if he's feeling extra masochistic. He's started to form a mental list of the ones to avoid or return to. 18. 19. 33. 35. 76.

The YouTube page is already open from last time, and he moves to click out of the tab before he can make a bad decision, but his attention is caught and fully drawn by the label _Entry 78_.

He didn't put that there.

Fuck.

He clicks the link and watches it. His stomach plummets when he realizes _he forgot to lock the fucking door_ , and of course Totheark was there, of _course_ he was, even though he's supposed to be _here_ , guarding Alex or whatever he's allegedly doing; and for a moment when it looks like he might just kill Jay and have done with it he thinks he is going to vomit, no, no, he did this to _protect_ Jay, not this, not—

But it's not that. Totheark gives Jay the knife and leaves him the camera. Jay's free. Jay uploaded this. He stares numbly at the last bits of text: _I'm going to find Tim. Then I'm going to find Alex and end this_.

He shuts the computer and sets it back on the floor of the car, lying back down and rubbing his eyes. So Jay's not going to starve to death. That's good. But Jay's also coming here. He might be here already. He might still be hostile and dangerous and he might be better prepared this time. Tim can't even deal with this right now. He'll have to worry about Jay later. Right now he needs to concentrate on finding Alex. Now time is even more of the essence. He has to get to Alex before Jay does. He _has_ to.

It takes him at least another hour of tossing and turning, but he finally manages to sleep.

His phone alarm wakes him from another in a long line of bad dreams he won't remember, and he jerks up for his morning cough. God, his mouth tastes like something died. He misses having a bathroom. He misses having a life. He looks blearily out the windows of his car. There's a light rain falling. Appropriate somehow.

He clambers awkwardly into the front seat and drives back to campus.

The maintenance entrance the groundskeeper had mentioned is locked, of course, so he starts wandering around the side until he spots a stairway leading down, follows it to find a mercifully unlocked basement door. Jackpot, fucking finally.

Hallways full of debris, he was so looking forward to doing this again. He picks his way through as quickly and quietly as possible, shining his light into every room he passes, finding nothing and more nothing. He comes to the end of the hall, picks a direction and keeps wandering until, finally, he spots a manhole cover. All right, that's something. Might lead somewhere, like to that maintenance entrance. If he can just get it up, maybe he can—

Something crashes echoingly through the hall behind him, jumping his heart into his throat, and he turns and stares into the dark for a frozen moment before he backs into a different alcove and switches off his flashlight.

Totheark? Alex?

Jay?

He watches for what seems like forever, holding his breath, praying he doesn't start coughing again. He can hear footsteps scraping along the dirt-laden floor, gradually approaching where he was, and their flashlight clicks on, flaring out into the dark. It takes him a moment to catch a glimpse; sure enough, that skinny little fuck got out here already, probably followed him down here. Tim grunts softly to himself and waits until Jay has gone, waits a moment more, and then steps back out.

Who knows where Jay has gone, or what he's planning to do. He can't think about it right now. He struggles with the manhole cover for a moment, but of course it won't budge, why would anything be simple? “Figures,” he mutters, and turns away. Gotta find a crowbar. There's gotta be one around somewhere. This is a dead fucking end without it.

He reaches one corner having found nothing, stops and stares at the wall for a moment. For a moment he thought he heard something maybe, somewhere in the building, but it's probably nothing— _it's an old building, things are probably falling down all the time_ —and after a small hesitation he lets out a slow breath and turns back, his shoe scraping on the floor.

Something wraps around his neck and pulls taut. He drops the flashlight and it crashes and rolls away, light flickering violently off the walls, his hands flying to grip at, what is that, an extension cord? He grasps it and pulls, but whoever looped it around him is pulling too, harder, bending him back. He chokes and gasps thinly, the urge to cough rising up in him, but he doesn't have enough breath for it. A well-aimed kick hits the back of his knee and he goes down hard, struggling like a leashed dog. The cord tugs and he jerks back with it, until he's pivoted around and shoved against the wall, hard enough to wind him, sending a shooting pain through his left shoulder. There's a hand on his throat now and he grabs it, ready to twist, fight back, right up until he feels the cold press of a gun barrel fitted neatly under his chin. He goes still as stone apart from breathing, which comes in sharp and painful. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. He looks up, and the flashlight is still casting light away, backlighting his assailant, but it doesn't matter, he already knows who it is.

“Hey, Tim,” says Alex softly, almost conversationally. “Fancy seeing you here.”


	5. Entry #79

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right now we are in the "everything is really violent and unpleasant" stretch but I promise eventually there will be chapters that are not that. For now if your life needs include "damsel Tim" you are in the right place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -references to gun violence  
> -physical assault, pain, and blood  
> -continuous strangulation  
> -abusive language, self-loathing, and suicide ideation

Jay waits and watches Benedict Hall for as long as he can. When the sun goes down there's no longer much of a point, is there? Can't see anything anyway. Can't sleep, either, but that's no longer what nights are for. Nights are for edits and uploads.

He retreats back to his car, gets out his laptop, accesses the weak but passable internet connection he found out here, and gets to work. There's a lot of footage to root through, there always is, but it's sort of easier than usual, just pulling out clips and slapping text on, only letting the really important moments play out—running into Totheark, spotting and tracking Tim, finding that room and that message. He finishes up on a shot of himself waiting by the window, adds the final pieces of text, and begins the render and export process.

Too fidgety to just wait, he opens up the browser and proceeds to his YouTube page. What he sees there stops him cold.

There's already an Entry 79. Tim's been busy, apparently. He clicks on it, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Let's see what you've got,” he mutters to himself.

The first several minutes are just Tim wandering around campus, stuff he already saw from a distance—and Tim saw him, fantastic. Of course he did.

Then everything goes straight to hell.

Jay jumps when Tim is caught from behind, the light dancing away and the camera jerking nauseatingly as he's spun around and apparently thrown against the wall, what the fuck, _what the fuck_ , and there's Alex leaning darkly into the frame, his features muddily visible amidst low-res artifact-ridden shadows, and Jay can just make out the corner of a manic grin, that and his incongruously cheerful greeting reminding him of _Hey, Jay! You forgot your flashlight!_

So he's not a captive, maybe he got free or maybe never was, maybe Totheark was lying to them, why not? Everyone lies, everyone and Jay's own memory. Everything except the tapes. Jay realizes Alex has the gun again, hears the click of it being cocked, loud and clear just next to the camera. Tim is breathing so hard, and there's a moment where it seems like this might be it, Alex is going to kill him and the psycho uploaded it to the internet _himself_ , but instead he pulls his arm back and coldcocks him, gun across his face. Tim goes down and stays down, Alex's feet planted over him, and then the picture goes out.

Jay stares at the black screen for a moment. There's more time left on the video, but what will it be? What's left? Is Tim dead somewhere in there? If he is, is it Jay's fault?

He betrayed you, little creature.

Jay's hand twitches involuntarily and he pulls it into a fist, nails biting into his palm. The video comes back, drawing his attention: distorted and cracked with static for a moment, then solidifying with an image so like one he's seen before, 67, wasn't it? where Totheark had Alex tied to a chair, only it's Tim this time, bent and bleeding and wriggling in a metal folding chair in an otherwise empty, featureless room. There's no audio. The camera's been set on a tripod or some other surface, because it holds steady as Alex steps into the frame a moment later. The audio flickers back in, and Jay hears the scrape of Alex's footsteps and the low, breathless grunts of Tim, just that for a moment until Alex looks at the camera.

“Jay,” he says, “I know you're watching this.”

Jay feels a chill pass down his spine, so acute and familiar that he reaches out frantic to pause the video and takes a moment just to breathe. It's okay, it's okay. He can't see you here. No one's here with you now.

~~I'm here, little beast.~~

He twitches again, violently, almost knocking the computer off his lap, catches it with one hand and clamps the other over his mouth as a wave of nausea passes through him. Shut it out. Shut it out shut it out.

He coughs once, then again, then he can't stop for a moment, it's burning his throat, god he's so thirsty, but all he can do is curl up and hold onto himself and his laptop until it passes, leaving him sprawled and gasping and tired. He forces himself to sit back up. Alex has made a fucking hostage video, it seems, and he has to watch it. It's already been up for a few hours. No time to waste.

He swallows with a dry throat, draws another slow breath in an attempt to steady his nerves, and resumes.

///

“Jay,” says Alex, “I know you're watching this.”

The extension cord is still looped around Tim's neck, such that whenever he pulls at the bindings twisted tightly around his wrists and holding him to the chair, it tugs against his throat. His head is pounding, he can feel blood drying on the side of his face, he has no idea where he is, and Alex is filming this, filming him, for Jay. He's going to upload this. Fuck. Tim is a goddamn incentive. He's _bait_.

“I know you're here,” Alex continues. “I'm always two steps ahead of you, remember?” He doesn't have the gun, at least not in his hand. Tim thinks he catches a glimpse of it tucked into the waistband of his jeans. “I ran into a friend of yours. Say hi, Tim.”

'Friend.' Hilarious. Tim wasn't a friend, Tim was convenient. Right up until he wasn't. He doesn't look at the camera, has no interest in acknowledging the situation; would Jay even _care_? Is he too far gone for that, too convinced that Tim is nothing but the liar they claim he is, doesn't deserve his attention? If Jay comes it'll just be to get at Alex, he'd put money on that, sorry piece of self-effacing shit that he is.

Alex seizes a handful of his hair and jerks his head up roughly, forcing him to face the lens, drawing a sharp moan of pain. His muscles go so stiff it hurts, his feet scrabbling uselessly at the floor.

“It's okay to look at the camera, Tim,” says Alex in a weird parody of his own directorial tone, then releases him with a shove, pushing his head aside. Tim gasps and grunts, still squirming uselessly, desperate to get free, knowing even as he tries that it's not going to happen.

“I saw your last entry, Jay,” says Alex. “Come find me, and we'll end this, like you said. If you aren't here by the end of tomorrow,” he pulls the gun out and cocks it again, then turns and puts it right up to Tim's temple, “I'll kill him, and I'll come find you myself.”

Tim hates how afraid he is and how much he shows it, quivering and almost whimpering from breathing so hard, exhaling explosively with relief the moment Alex lifts the gun away.

“I'd rather do this the easy way,” says Alex calmly to the camera. “So you come and find me. Okay?”

He tucks the gun back into his waistband and strides toward the camera. “See you soon, Jay.”

He stops recording. From across the room Tim hears the familiar whirr and click of the camera shutting down. He sits there, breathing raggedly and trying to stave off the steadily growing itch in his throat that makes him want to cough, and, periodically, tugging at his restraints. Alex is still tinkering with the camera for a moment, getting the tape out, opening up—is that _his_ laptop? Sure fucking is. So Alex broke into his car. Fucking great.

He's tired from resisting. He goes limp for a moment, letting his breathing slow.

“Alex,” he says quietly.

Alex ignores him.

“ _Alex_.” Tim shifts a little, and the chair grinds a half-inch along the floor, but the motion only pulls the cord taut around his neck and he immediately flinches back. He releases a sick, strangled sound of frustration, then continues doggedly: “It doesn't have to be this way. You're sick, but you can get help.”

“I'm not sick.” Alex gets up abruptly, turns and stalks back over Tim with such quick strides that Tim's instinct is to flinch again, trying to scoot backward, but before he can get anywhere Alex is bending over him, wrapping a hand around his throat. “And I don't need help. I have protection. I'm doing this to protect everyone _else_ from _you_. I have to stop this from spreading, and that's only gonna happen once you're dead.”

Tim stares up at him, struggling to breathe, straining for escape, the closeness and the maintained contact making his adrenaline spike uncomfortably. His skin feels too hot, his pulse too fast and too loud. _What if he's right. What if he's right, what if he's right._ “Alex, please—”

“You're the one who's sick, Tim,” hisses Alex, squeezing his throat to cut him off, but even with the brutality of the gesture Tim can feel a tremor under his skin, just a little faint echo of humanity. “You're the one that brought it here. _You're_ the reason it came for us. And I'm the only one that can stop it. Because I'm the only one who _will_.”

God, he believes it. Tim twists to get away, and Alex releases him, standing up straighter, looking down at him with disgust.

“This isn't gonna stop it,” says Tim, weak and desperate. “It's not protecting you, it's controlling you. I know what that's like, Alex, I've had to live with it my entire life, but I've learned out to block it out. I can show you how. We can fight it together, I can _help_ you! _Please_.”

“The only way you can help any of us now is to _die_ ,” says Alex viciously, and he reaches around behind Tim and grabs the cord, pulling down hard, pressing it against Tim's throat. Tim reels back, twitching and writhing, struggling wildly for air, but Alex holds him unrelentingly. “You should have killed yourself a long time ago, the moment you realized you were the source. Maybe that could have at least saved Jay. But you didn't, because you're a coward.”

Tim's back arches up as Alex continues to put pressure on the cord, dragging him down with it, choking him—is he going to just do it now, let it be done, and just wait for Jay on his own? Maybe he should. Maybe he's right. Maybe this thing fizzles out with him. Maybe he could have stopped this years ago.

Instead Alex lets go and steps away, leaving Tim to curl over as much as he can, coughing violently, hard enough that he feels like he's going to throw up or pass out. He can feel Alex watching him impassively, waiting to see what happens, an observer just like Jay, or the other way around, he supposes. He heaves out a sick, brittle laugh at that, even though it's not really funny. When the coughing finally subsides he feels torn up, exhausted, but still fucking alive. As long as he's alive he has to fight this. He has to do something. He fought it before and he won, and maybe he can do that again. He's not even sure he can talk anymore, but he has to try.

“How do you know I'm the only source,” he rasps out. “How do you know it's not you, too? You could have been feeding it this whole time.”

“I'm keeping this under control,” says Alex hotly. “I have to stop it from spreading and that means cutting off everyone it touches.”

“What about you?” Tim chances a look up at Alex, who keeps his distance for now, staring at him. “What'll happen to you when we're all gone? You'll just be a shell of a person. And what if it keeps spreading after that? What if _this_ is how it spreads? What then?”

“Shut up!” Alex lunges at him again and Tim braces for impact, but it's not enough to quell the scream that bursts out of him when Alex punches him hard across the face. Alex clamps his hand over Tim's mouth, gripping him tightly, forcing him to look up. “I did what I had to do. What no one else will do. This is the only way it'll stop. I have to contain it.” He's on the edge of something now, Tim can see it. Internally, maybe desperately, deconstructing his own convictions. Tim stares up at him, his heart thundering against his chest, terrified but unwilling to look away.

Alex seems to meet his eyes for a moment, wavering, and then releases him violently.

“This never would have happened without you,” he snarls, flecks of spit hitting Tim in the face. “It all started with _you_.”

“Fine!” Tim knows he should stop talking, it'll only make Alex angrier, but some part of him wants that. “Fine. Then it's me you want. Not Jay. You can let Jay _go_. Let him get out of here. You don't have to hurt him.”

“Oh, like he'll just _stop_ digging into this once you're gone?” Alex sounds smug now, more comfortable, now that Tim no longer has him on the threshold of revelation. He steps back again, allowing Tim the space to breathe. “Jay will never give up. If he was smart he'd have stopped years ago, but he didn't. He kept opening this up more and more, and he'll keep going no matter what. He's part of the problem now, and he has to die. And you're gonna see it happen, because _you_ put him here. You're the reason. You always were.”

Alex isn't touching him anymore but he might as well be, the way he digs so precisely at these wounds and doubts. Tim looks away, squeezing his eyes shut as though trying to block it all out, but in the dark behind his eyelids, that's where _it_ waits for him. When his eyes snap open he thinks he sees it looming there over Alex's shoulder, for just a moment.

Apparently satisfied, Alex turns away, moves back to Tim's computer. “You be quiet now,” he says in a tone that makes it pretty clear this is not up for argument. “I have work to do.”

Tim watches, desolate, as he sits down on the dirty floor and starts working, uploading the footage from camera to computer. So much like Jay. How long would it have taken Jay to become like Alex? And would it have been his fault? Is all of this really down to him?

Not so hard to believe, is it.

He hopes Jay doesn't come. He hopes Jay gives up on him, gives up on all of it. He wants to think Jay can get out of this, get help, become healthy and normal again, live the life that was robbed from all of them. He wants to believe that. He needs to. Alex can kill him if that's what he's going to do, what he needs to do, but please, not Jay. Let Jay live. Please.


	6. noentry(3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is super short, a little breath before the inevitable storm. New POV and more playing it fast and loose with headcanon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -mind invasion/mind control, elements of brainwashing  
> -loss of identity and bodily autonomy, denial of food/water/sleep

The entry is posted, Tim is either asleep or unconscious. It doesn't matter which. He might as well be practicing. Soon enough he'll be like that forever, and then this will all finally be over.

He shuts the computer with care, sets it aside, then places himself against the wall to keep an eye on Tim and on the doorway. Gazes dully at the reddish brown streak of blood dried on Tim's face. You caused that, my animal, you made that happen. You did not relish it but it had to be done; just as with the intruder who came upon you and had to be destroyed. This you did not relish either but it had to be. You were thorough. You did well. You have survived so long because of this strength. Because of your patience. Because you will do what must be done.

He holds himself very still, unfettered. Distant and well-filtered sensations keep him dimly aware of his corporeal body: muscular strain from having dragged Tim here and deeper, duller aches of having slept on earth or floor for longer than he can remember, as well as well-tamed fatigue from barely sleeping at all. He remembers that he is hungry and thirsty, but those physical needs are kept at bay for now. Water comes in small doses, when he is allowed. Only then.

So much now that is no longer necessary. So much he cannot afford to keep. There is only room in him for this single purpose, to blot out the threads of infection, seeping like ink into the cracks of his—Jay's— _Tim's_ social web. So much damage has been done and so much more than time has been taken, isn't that how Brian put it in his cute little videos. Who knew Brian could be so creative with a camera. Who knew Brian was creative at all.

Do not lose yourself, my creature, my beast.

He sees It, hovering in the corner, watching him—no eyes but he knows where it looks. Tim starts to cough in his sleep, shaking, the chair rattling slightly, but the spell passes soon and before he can wake up.

No thoughts about the past. None about the future. Alex exists in present tense. Now is a time for stillness. Waiting for Jay. Will he come? Will he leave Tim to die and keep the chase going?

He will come, my instrument. He will come to you. And when he comes you will cut him out, sick organ, diseased flesh. You will feed him to me, all of them, and it will be the culmination. What I have waited for. What you have worked for. You know what then, my animal, my thing. You know what awaits.

Alex allows his eyes to close. He is tired but he will not sleep, cannot afford it, not when Jay could appear at any moment.

This is almost over.

He is almost safe.

Soon it will end and you will be free. You will be well. You will be you.

Soon it will be over.

Very soon, my boy.

[ ark awaits ]


	7. Entry #80

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait on this one. It's big and eventful, hopefully that'll make up for it. Four separate POVs complete with weird formatting because that's how I roll.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has been reading and spreading this around on tumblr. I'd always love to hear from you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -physical assault, violence, pain, blood  
> -strangulation  
> -gun violence  
> -graphic coughing, throwing up  
> -mind invasion/control  
> -death  
> -survivor's guilt and suicide ideation

When he returns to Benedict Hall Jay finds the door propped, an obvious invitation, but as for where in this huge creaky building Alex and Tim could actually _be_ , he's left to guess and wander blindly. He knows, too, that Tim could be left alone somewhere, Alex waiting to spring on him. This is so obviously a trap. But he has no other choice.

At the very least, he thinks, there is what he knows from the video: it was a reasonably large room with at least one entrance, a door behind Tim. Low natural light, so it had windows, probably bigger than the ones in the basement, and on the right side of the room from the camera's perspective. That information helps him narrow it down at least a little, but it still leaves him creeping along corridors as quietly as he can, camera and no weapon, leaning around each open door half-expecting to wind up looking down the barrel of a gun. And what is he going to do when he finds them, huh? What is the master plan? He doesn't have one, never did, Tim was always right about that—he just blunders around and hopes for the best. There's no 'best' that can come from this and he knows that. He's past that point now.

Will he confront Alex?

Will he rescue Tim?

Is _either_ of those even possible?

A cough cuts through his clouded awareness. He knows Tim's cough well enough by now. He freezes like an animal in headlights, listening carefully. The cough comes again. End of the hall.

He quickens his pace.

Reaching the entrance—the door is long gone, ripped off its hinges, just an empty frame now—he stands with his back to the wall, listening. He can hear Tim breathing, his throat worn. No other sounds. Is Tim alone in there? Should he risk a glance?

Alex beats him to it.

 

 

Alex hears Jay coming, he knows Tim's coughing fit will only draw him in and Jay was never any good at being quiet. There's two doors to this room, one behind them and one straight ahead, outside which Jay is hovering, probably wondering what to do. Alex steps swiftly behind Tim and presses a hand over his mouth. Tim jerks beneath him but Alex ignores it. He is immaterial; keeping him silent now is only to minimize complication.

“Jay,” he calls, “I know you're out there.”

He pulls out the gun with his free hand. Tim makes a more concerted effort to be heard, struggling and grunting, until Alex presses the gun to his temple. That always settles a person down.

“Come on, Jay,” he coaxes. “Come on in.”

 

 

Jay's breath catches in his throat. He can hear muffled groaning, Tim has been muzzled somehow but it doesn't matter, what's he going to say, _it's a trap?_ Duh.

Maybe he'll tell Jay to run again.

Remember, little beast. Remember that he lied to you. He betrayed you. You are not here for him. You are here for the other.

Jay swallows thickly. “Alex,” he calls back, not risking a look into the room yet. “Alex, I want to help you.”

There's a pause, and then, “Do you?” A little chuckle, makes him shiver. “I thought you wanted to help your buddy Tim, here.”

“No,” growls Jay. The vitriol explodes out of him, difficult to leash. “Tim is a liar.”

He swallows again. His throat is so dry.

“But he doesn't deserve to die, Alex. Please.”

There's a long silence. He doesn't know what to do. He can't keep sitting here, letting this stalemate continue. He draws a breath and finally leans around the corner.

Alex and Tim are on the far side of the room, hand to Tim's mouth, gun to his head. Two doors, then. Alex's eyes are on him, Tim's are too.

Tim's eyes are always unbearable.

 

 

There he is. Poking his head in, little rodent. Alex smiles, relaxing a little, letting his hand drop from Tim's mouth.

“That's where you're wrong, Jay,” he says quietly. “We _all_ have to die. And we're all going to. Right here. All three of us.”

He raises the gun, slow, steady. No need to rush. He's in no hurry. Jay's not going to run. Nearly there now.

 

 

Tim doesn't know why he didn't expect this. It was obvious all along, wasn't it? Still he looks up sharply when Alex speaks, _all three of us_ , himself, too. This isn't just killing everyone else, it's all the loose ends, carrying up to him. He'll be the last. Alex will destroy them, then himself. This is the only answer he can see.

It's the only one Tim could see, too. For a long time.

Jay thinks he's a liar but also thinks he doesn't deserve to die.

That's something, maybe.

“Alex,” says Jay, his voice faltering, still holding his stupid camera, here we are again, gun in his face and his instinct is to film it. “Alex, don't.”

Alex takes a step forward.

 

 

Three blind mice. See how they run.

Which is the third? Is it him? Is it you?

Liar, observer, weapon, and you.

This wasn't your plan, really, but you learned long ago not to put too much stock in those anyway. Things will happen. It doesn't matter. Everything will sooner or later lead where it must.

The weapon is distracted. His attention on the observer, who is trying to apply reason, let us never say he is not dogged. This is the moment, the only moment you will have. You must act. The field must be evened.

You step inside, quiet, gentle. The weapon is speaking, not listening; he cannot do both. The observer sees you, but he is wise not to react.

Your hand fits around the liar's mouth. Your glove muffles his voice better than the weapon's palm could. He is startled but he realizes soon enough that you mean to free him, and he will be silent. He will let you do your work.

 

 

“This is what has to happen, Jay,” Alex is saying, while Jay stands frozen, _what do I do, what the fuck do I do_. “It's always what had to happen. Since Tim met Brian, you, me. _He_ started this, all of this. He is the reason we're here. The reason I have to do this.”

The gun is still trained on him and he is still frozen. If he tries to run he'll be shot in the back. He holds his hand out, trying to pacify. What else can he do?

“You don't _have_ to do anything, Alex!” he protests, and Alex is already jumping over him, never listening: “You don't know what you're talking about, Jay, you never did. The smartest thing you ever did was label that tape you stole from me, and then you lost those seven months, forgot all the sense you'd learned. What makes you think you know _any_ better than me?”

Jay sees him, Totheark, slinking in through the other door, creeping up behind Tim, not to hurt him but to let him go. He refocuses on Alex almost immediately, doesn't want Alex to see his eyes darting, doesn't want him to know. Can't trust Tim, can't trust Totheark, can't trust anyone, but at least if someone gets Alex from behind, maybe he'll escape without getting shot. Not getting shot would definitely be preferable.

“I don't think that,” he says, taking a fumbling step forward. “I just don't want to die. I want to know why you're doing this, what happened to you, what—”

 

 

“What _happened_ to me?” Alex jerks forward viciously. Jay steps back again, trembling, cowardly. “You _know_ what happened to me. That thing got into me, changed me, ruined my life. The same thing's happening to you. Do you think we can stop this if we wish hard enough? Death is the only answer for us now.”

He steadies his hand. One chance. A bullet for Jay, one for Tim, one for Brian. That's all he needs if he aims right

“For what it's worth I'm sorry,” he says,

and there might be some part of him that means it.

 

 

If no one ever put their hand on his mouth again it would be too fucking soon.

Totheark releases him and he knows to stay silent. The question is what he does the moment he's released. He needs his medicine and he _knows_ Totheark has it, but that can't be his priority, not now, not while Alex has his gun on Jay.

The cord is lifted from his neck but it's still unwinding from his wrists. He squirms slightly, desperate to get up before something _happens_ , he has to stop this, he has to, hurry up, hurry _up—_

The shot deafens him.

“ _Jay, no!”_ he screams, he knows he screams because of the pain in his throat, though all he can hear is a ringing in his ears. His hands are free, moments too late. He launches himself up, his legs barely work from being dragged and beaten and bound, but he lunges forward anyway, half-falling into his target. He collides with Alex, knocks him forward, down to the floor, into the woods.

 

 

He's been shot.

It takes him a moment to notice.

It's surprising, first, just how loud it was. Tim's scream, echoing off the walls after the sharp bang. Then there's the sharp pressure shoving him back. He _feels_ the bullet punch through him. Staggers. Goes down to his knees.

That's when the pain comes.

He hears himself utter a sound, broken and pushed out of him, barely anything at all. Shocked, affronted, confused. He crumples to the floor. The others are gone. Vanished. He looks at his hand. It's covered in blood. Oh god, oh god, oh god.

Please don't leave me alone.

I don't want to die alone.

 

 

You were careless, my animal.

The liar is free.

Tim's arms wrap around him from behind, bringing him down hard on a floor of dried leaves and twigs. Night now, night in Rosswood. Alex twists in Tim's grip. He's reaching for the gun but he won't get it. Alex strikes him across the face with it, dislodges him, knocks him aside. He gets up, points the gun at his head. Tim is on the floor of his hospital room, burn damage crusting over the walls behind him, familiar fear in his eyes. Alex pulls the trigger.

 

 

Tim drops. Through the floor, a gap in rotting floorboards, down to the flooded basement. Running. All he has is Jay's stupid little knife. Alex is coming behind him, he hears the shot echoing off the walls.

“You can't hide forever, Tim,” he snarls.

We'll just see about that.

Tim runs, no matter where he is he runs: forest, field, hospital, hall. Alex is always behind him. His head is pounding, there's static in his ears. There's a sharp twinge in his leg. Was he shot? Maybe grazed? It doesn't matter. He has to get back, has to find Jay. Is Jay all right? _Is he?_

No time to wonder. He's in the hospital again, hallways upon hallways, broken glass and childhood memories, scared as fuck because _it's right there_ and _it's going to get him_. He rounds a corner and there's Alex, grabbing his collar, shoving him backward against the wall, Benedict Hall again; pinning him there with the gun against his throat. The knife is jarred from his hand, falling to the floor, useless anyway.

Jay, too, is on the floor, curled up, bleeding.

And It is there. Watching. Standing over Alex's shoulder. Waiting, hungry. Bleed more, children.

 

 

Tim seizes his wrist before his finger finds the trigger, twisting to make him drop the gun, with his other hand delivers an off-center uppercut and knocks him back. The gun, where's the fucking gun? Tim dives for it, and Alex throws himself down. It brings them to the tunnel. Tim has the gun but Alex is on top of him, holding him down, an arm around his throat.

“You _aren't_ containing it,” Tim hisses. “You're just feeding it.” His fingers like a claw, wrapping around Alex's arm, desperate, dying. “When you killed Amy, did you feel like you were in control then?”

“Shut up,” comes out the side of his mouth. He's bit his lip, he can taste blood on his tongue. He squeezes his arm harder around Tim's throat. He can't know that. He _can't_. Amy wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was. None of it. None of it.

 

 

The weapon will destroy the liar. You cannot allow this. Not yet.

You come behind them, wrest the weapon away. For the moment he is gone, tucked back into the ether of Its world.

The liar curls up before you, coughing, struggling to breathe, pathetic and human on the floor of Benedict Hall. You give him his face. Drop it at his feet. Please. Please. Come back. Find me.

The liar's hand finds the face and sweeps it aside. Rank refusal. Again, again. Alone again.

 _It_ is here, hovering behind you, waiting to see. You must leave him. You must run.

 

 

Tim grips the gun and picks himself up, staggering away, coughing too hard to breathe, his body moving on autopilot. Has to get away. Can't let it in. Not now. Not now.

Jay, have to find Jay.

Jay might be dying.

Jay might be dead.

Jay might not think him an ally.

None of that matters. No one else dies. Not because of him.

He lurches his way down the hall, back into the room where Alex was holding him. Jay is there, on the floor. He's coughing. He's still alive.

“Jay?” He falls to his knees, crawls to him. “ _Jay_?” Please, please, please.

The shot hit him in the shoulder. The camera lies dormant beside him, catching his face as he drifts in and out of consciousness. What an entry this'll be. Ha, ha. 

“Jay, please.” Tim turns him onto his back, cups a hand around his cheek. “It's gonna be okay, Jay. It's gonna be fine.”

Liar. Probably.

Footsteps. Running into the room. Running for him.

He doesn't stop to think. He grabs the gun. He stands up. He turns. He fires.

 

 

You should have expected this.

You did expect it.

They—all of them—they led you here.

Led you, finally, to the ark.

 

 

The spray of blood is violent, sickening, unexpected. Tim's never killed anyone before. The masked, hooded head jerks back unnaturally and the body crumples, twitching for a moment before going absolutely still.

Oh, god.

“No, nononono.” He drags himself forward, oh god, oh god, he didn't mean for this to happen, he just panicked. Thought it was Alex. Does that make it better? Would he have killed Alex?

He feels the itch in his throat, the exhaustion of his entire body wracked with the cough, and he can't take the time to worry about what he did. He roots through their pockets. Pulls out something solid: a tape. A tape? A fucking _tape?_ He tosses it aside angrily and digs deeper. There they are. There they are.

He takes one. He takes another. He coughs, curls over himself. Body shaking, head pounding, vision blurring. Please let it be enough. Please let it have come in time.

He feels it kick in. Learned to feel it after a while. The shaking stops. The cough dies down. He lifts himself up, stares at the body he's brought down.

Reaches, slow and trembling, for the mask.

Hands around him, pulling him back. He didn't even hear Alex come in.

 

 

Alex throws him down and straddles him, both hands wrapped tightly around his throat, pressing, crushing. Tim's hands grasp weakly at his, his eyes wide and desperate, choking out unintelligible protestations. It doesn't matter anymore. None of it matters.

“This is what has to be,” he whispers. Can Tim even hear him over his own struggling? It doesn't matter. “This is _it_. It ends now, with you, and then with me. We'll all be gone. It will all be over.”

Harder, my boy.

Press the life from him.

Give him over to me.

“All of us,” whispers Alex.

“You missed someone,” whispers Jay.

 

 

Did you see? I saw.

Jay saw it all: saw Tim murder Totheark. Saw Alex drag Tim down. Saw the gun lying dormant.

One arm is numb but the other works fine. He pulls himself up. The gun is heavier than he expects.

He never had a plan, here. It was just _find Alex_. Then _find Amy_. _Find Jessica. Find Tim. Find Alex, again_.

And end this.

So he does.

He puts the gun to Alex's temple and he pulls the trigger.

 

 

The blood hits Tim in the face. Alex's hands tighten around him convulsively, then loosen and fall away as his body hits the floor with a sickening thud. He drags himself back, struggling to breathe, staring horrified into the open-eyed face of the man who tried to kill him more than once, who is now dead, just like that, so easy, so brutal.

He looks up at Jay.

Jay is standing there, blood running down his arm and dripping from his fingers; gun hanging limply in the other hand.

“Jay?” he murmurs, shaky, uncertain.

 

 

Finish him, little beast.

Finish him like you finished the other.

Let it all end.

Let yourself be free.

 

 

Jay lifts the gun, his eyes not quite focusing, staring numbly into the space between gun and target.

“Jay, no,” begs Tim. “ _No_. You don't have to do this, Jay, please. We can fight it. _Jay_. Please.”

 

 

Jay barely hears him.

Do it, little one.

His finger curls shakily around the trigger.

Yes, my little one. My boy, my beast.

His hand is shaking. There are tears, he thinks, running down Tim's face, or is he seeing things?

It's only a moment, but the moment is enough.

_No._

He throws his arm aside, violently, a puppet tearing his strings. The gun skitters away. He drops hard. Down to the floor. Enough, now. Enough.

 

 

The breath comes out of Tim in a heavy burst. He pitches forward, vomits until he feels like there's nothing left. Gasping, he scrambles over to his collapsed friend, for lack of a better word his _friend_ , no time to count his blessings, and lifts him in his arms, hand under his head. “Jay?” He sounds desperate, sick. “Jay? _Jay_?”

Is he breathing? Tim curls over, pressing an ear to his heart. It's beating, barely, soft and fluttering.

“Oh god, Jay, please,” he whispers. “Please, don't go, Jay, don't go, I need you. You're all I have. You're all I have left. Please.”

Here he is, surrounded by bodies. One in his arms, two on either side of him. None of them are his. Why, why, why are none of them _his_.

Look at you. Look at you, pet. You've come so far.

Tim clenches his jaw tight as he feels the pulse of unsteady static burn through his brain. Not again, not again. It's there, corner of his eye, no, dead fucking center: standing in the middle of the room, standing over Alex. Claiming Alex.

Bile and blood rise in his throat. No, no. Don't take him. Don't take him away.

He is already mine.

Alex is gone. Tim lets out a scream as migraine pain hits him, sledgehammered to one side of the head.

It's standing over Totheark now. No, no, not him, I don't even know who he _is_ , I didn't mean to kill him, I didn't mean to—

He has been mine longer than you know.

Totheark is gone. The pain grinds to both sides of his head, pressure on both temples, darkening his vision around the edges. It is standing over him now. Over him, and over Jay.

Jay is alive. He is not yours.

Its head tilts toward him and Tim feels an intense grip all over his body, a seizure of his heart; he might stop breathing any moment, but he doesn't falter, doesn't fall.

 _You're not taking him._ He grits his teeth. _You can't have him._

This worked once before. It can work again.

You do not command me, _boy_.

I am not a boy anymore.

You cannot have him.

You _can't_.

The pain is indescribable, he could not put it to words if he even wanted to. He doesn't think he'll survive it. Iron spiked through his head. Fire in his blood. Water filling up his lungs. Water water water.

He coughs a gob of spit and blood onto the floor and stares at it for a moment before realizing

 _it's gone_.

He is alone here, alone with Jay in his arms, Jay who is still alive, Jay who is still breathing, Jay who almost killed him but _didn't_.

He lets out a laugh that is half a sob.

Every part of him hurts.

It's over now.

It's done.


	8. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some aftermath. This is a super fast update partly because I realize the last chapter felt like a possible ending, and I didn't want to imply that. There's plenty more to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -vague description of medical stuff  
> -(medical) drug use  
> -brief implied suicide ideation

Jay weighs almost nothing.

It's getting dark as Tim carries him to the car, Jay's car, fishing the keys out of Jay's pocket. He has his computer and the cameras but they're not on. Fuck them. Enough. It all goes in the trunk next to Jay's laptop. Jay'd film every inch of what was left of his life, right up until he died, if he could. Tim isn't like that. He's never been the movie guy. He's more interested in surviving.

He drives as fast as he can back into town, straight to the hospital. They take Jay into the emergency room and leave him to fill out some forms. He paces, chain drinks bitter waiting room coffee, steps out only to smoke. Morning comes before something happens.

When he comes back inside from the third cigarette in as many hours he spots one of the nurses he spoke to earlier, and she catches his eye and points at him. She's talking to someone, two someones. Two men in suits.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

Brought in a guy with a gunshot wound, some blood on you yourself, and what, you didn't think the police might get involved? What a fucking idiot.

Time to go. He'll have to come back to get Jay. He turns on his heel to walk back out, but a doctor intercepts him, approaching from his blind spot. “Mr. Wright?”

“Uh, yeah,” says Tim, eyes darting back to the probable detectives. Should he have given a fake name? Would that only have made everything worse? “Is he...?”

“He's stable,” says the doctor. She has steady eyes, a calm tone he knows too well. All of it familiar. Doctors are like family, after all. “We need to keep him here a while longer to see how his condition progresses, but it's looking promising. There wasn't any internal bleeding, and the nerve damage should be minimal.”

Tim hears all this somewhat distantly, nodding to show he's listening. Mostly he's stuck on the first part. Jay's okay. He'll be okay. He's gonna get through this.

“When can I take him out of here?” he asks.

“We'll have to see how he does tonight,” says the doctor passively. “And there's some police officers who need to talk to you.”

“What? Why?” says Tim quickly, stupidly, sounding guilty as fuck. Goddammit, they're coming over. He didn't plan for this. He didn't even think.

“Timothy Wright?” says one of them, the heavier one. He looks in no mood for bullshit, which is just fucking great. “You brought in Jay Merrick?”

“Yeah,” says Tim. Don't volunteer anything until you're asked. The doctor reaches out to touch his arm, sympathetically, reassuringly, maybe? And then she drifts away, back to her job. Leaving him pinned by these two needlers.

“Can you just sit down with us for a moment, Mr. Wright?” says the thinner one. “We need to ask you a couple questions.”

Trapped, Tim sits stiffly, the three of them occupying a little corner of the waiting room.

“I'm Detective Long and this is Detective Hadley,” the thin one continues as they each flash their badges. “How are you related to Jay Merrick?”

“I'm not,” says Tim, doing everything in his waning power not to twitch, fidget, jiggle his foot. “He's a friend of mine. We're roommates.”

Sure. Why not. It'll be true if he can ever get him out of here. It's not like Jay has anywhere else to go.

“How did Mr. Merrick sustain his injury?” asks Hadley bluntly. Tactful cop, blunt cop.

“I don't know,” says Tim carefully.

“You don't know?” echoes Long.

“I found him passed out and bleeding so I brought him here,” says Tim, “what else was I supposed to do?”

“Then you aren't aware that your friend was shot,” says Hadley, watching Tim through lazily narrowed eyes, like a fuckin' indifferent cat.

Tim hesitates, which he thinks he can play off as surprise. “I mean, it looked a little like a gunshot wound I guess, but I was kinda more worried about getting him here.” He shifts in his chair. “I hadn't seen him all day, he didn't come home so I went out to look for him, and I found him near the woods. Probably got shot by a hunter.”

Way too much. Just telling them something and hoping they'll take it. Long is taking notes; Hadley is watching him, thoroughly unfooled. Goddammit godfuckingdammit.

“The weird thing about it is,” says Hadley slowly, “he took the shot right here.” Taps his own shoulder. “No exit wound. And no bullet.”

Long stops writing and looks at Tim.

He looks between them for a moment.

No bullet.

No gun.

It always cleans its messes.

“Very unusual, for them not to find the bullet,” says Hadley.

They're waiting for him to say something. He should say something. “Yeah, that's really weird,” he says. “Um, look, I'm—I'm sorry, I know you guys have to ask your questions and everything, but... I actually haven't had anything to eat since yesterday, I really need to... I was just about to head out. Is it okay if I just run to get some lunch real quick? I'll be back in like an hour.”

They exchange a glance.

Tim's terrified, sure as fuck, but he's reasonably certain they can't hold him. There's no evidence of a crime here, just a really weird injury and a really bad cover story. It'll look like he's bolting, but he's not. He needs to eat. And he needs to build a fucking alibi.

“We need to ask you some more questions when you get back,” says Long, the implication being _so don't try to go anywhere_. The hospital has all his information anyway. There's no squirming away from this.

God, all the shit he's gone through today and now the real world wants a piece of him? Just leave him _alone_.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, getting up. “Anything I can do to help.”

“You doin' okay, Mr. Wright?” asks Hadley from his seat. “Look a little like you've been in a fight.”

Tim looks down at himself. “Yeah, I really need a shower,” he says apologetically. Already washed off the blood in the bathroom. Can't wash everything off. Some of it's never coming off. “I was hiking for a while yesterday, didn't get a chance to clean up before I found him.”

Such bullshit. They take what they're fed, no reason to argue, not yet.

God he needs an alibi. That or Jay to wake up. Something.

He gets out, walk don't run, his palms itchy with sweat. Ugh. He sits in Jay's car for just a moment, gripping the steering wheel, before he drives away.

He parks in a public lot and walks downtown, heading for a diner he knows. This is going to be okay. There's no evidence for them to discover and even if they're suspicious they'll have to drop it. There'll be nothing to go on. Jay won't press charges or anything. Just a little more discomfort and then you can get Jay out of here, you can both go back to hiding.

Hiding from what, now?

Alex gone, Totheark gone. Is this it, or does the thing want them still? Is it going to keep hounding them, hounding _him_ , forever?

What if Alex was right?

Tim twitches at he thought, trying to push it away. He looks up, lets his eyes wander, and comes to a sharp halt.

Halfway down the block is a laundromat, and a girl just walked in. He's never met her before, at least not that he remembers, but he knows her, oh fuck, does he know her.

He approaches slowly, stands outside the laundromat's front window. There she is, moving clothes from washer to dryer. Focused on her task, expressionless. Oh god, she's alive. She really is alive. Somehow she fucking made it.

She glances up, sees him staring and freezes. Tim flinches slightly. If he comes in and approaches her now she'll panic. Some creepy dirty bearded guy staring at her and then walking up to her? She doesn't know him. But he needs to talk to her. He _needs_ to.

He raises a hand, gives an awkward wave. She peers at him. Trying to figure out if she knows him.

She doesn't remember a lot. Maybe just that seven months she and Jay lost, maybe more. That'll come in handy here. She's in no position to doubt that a stranger might have a legitimate reason to recognize her. He feels fucking repulsive for even thinking that, but it's what he has to do.

She makes a vague motion in return, maybe a noncommittal wave or a _hold on_ gesture, finishes rotating her laundry, then steps outside, cautious, untrusting. Keeping outside arm's length. Smart girl.

“Did you want something?” she says.

“Sorry,” says Tim. “Uh, Jessica, right?”

She doesn't like that. Happens too much, probably. People knowing her name. Her eyes flicker a bit, pass over him, a quirk of the eyebrows. She runs a hand through her hair, pushing it over one shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I'm Tim,” he says. “Sorry, we've, uh, we've never actually met.”

No lies, not this time. Plenty to come later.

“I'm a friend of Jay's,” he says. “Do you remember Jay?”

She blinks at him. “Jay?” she says softly. Coming back a little, maybe? Something she tried to forget, tried to tell herself she imagined? He knows that too, too well. “Is... Where is he?”

“He's in the hospital,” says Tim. “He's okay, but... Look, I know this is kinda sudden, but I need your help. Are you hungry? I was just gonna get some lunch, I could get you something if you want. We can talk.”

She takes a moment to assess.

“Do you know what happened to me?” she asks. Tim is almost relieved by the frankness of it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do. I can explain all of it, and I can help you. I promise. But I need you to help me, too. It'll help Jay. Please.”

She's hesitating. Really uneasy. He doesn't blame her. Last time someone tried to tell her he'd answer all her questions if she could just hang on a second, she wound up staring down the barrel of a gun.

But Jessica was always tough. She was tougher than Jay, which isn't hard. Look at her, alive, living. Surviving. She's probably tougher than all of them.

“Okay,” she says. “I'll need to get my clothes in an hour.”

“Sure,” he says, and beckons her to walk with him to the diner.

\\\\\

Jay drifts in and out. He ascertains he's in a hospital after a while, but that isn't very helpful. He doesn't have the wherewithal to think anything of it. His mind is empty. Blank. He's tired and numb. Shot full of something to keep him down. Rabid dog. Little beast.

He expects to see it standing there every time his eyes flutter open. He sees it behind his eyelids. But the room is always white and empty; the only people he sees nurses, doctors.

How did he get here?

What does it matter.

His right hand feels weird. Weighted with pin-and-needle static. Held a gun, didn't it? Dropped his camera. No camera now. He's alone, unwatched again. He hates that feeling. So unsafe.

He shot Alex in the head.

He murdered his friend.

Not even his friend, he knows that. Not even before. They barely even knew each other. Alex was just some guy he worked with briefly and _you threw your life away for him_. And now he's dead because you killed him and now you have nobody.

Well, not nobody.

Someone brought you here.

His fingers curl weakly.

In between his brief fits of consciousness, Jay dreams, replaying snippets of life forgotten. Tim, he says, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I followed you. I'm sorry I dragged you here. I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry I told the world you had hallucinations, seizures, anhedonia. I'm sorry I couldn't help. I'm sorry I tried to hurt you.

I know why you kept that tape from me.

I know why, Tim.

Too bad he so rarely remembers his dreams.

///

Jessica is a very good liar.

Not many people know that about her. Not many people know anything about her.

“We went to high school together,” she tells Detective Long. “I just moved back here recently and I was looking up some old friends, you know, just... so I wouldn't feel alone, I guess.” She fidgets and evades eye contact. She knows how to do it right: not dishonest but coy. Girly. She's embarrassed because she's talking about her feelings. She rests her hand on the back of her neck and smiles a little. “It was really nice seeing Tim again, you know? He was a really good friend in high school. Anyway. Sorry.” Nervous little laugh. Cute. Innocuous. “Yesterday we both had a day off, so we just hung out for a while. Played some video games—he made me try Call of Duty, but we were both really bad at it, so we kinda gave up after a while. I think it was around like... four, maybe? We went out to Rosswood Park and hiked for a while. We were gonna make a night of it but... I got kinda tired. I'm not as outdoorsy as I used to be, I guess.” Another awkward smile. “So he drove me home, and he said he was gonna look for Jay, cause he hadn't heard from him all day, and you know, Jay usually answers his phone right away, so. Tim worries a lot so I didn't think it was anything, but... I'm really glad he worried in this case, you know? I mean, poor Jay. He was probably out there trying to film something. Tim's always telling him to wear orange, you know, people get drunk and go hunting all the time out there... god, I'm just so glad he's okay.” She makes a show of catching herself rambling, shakes her head a little and smiles. “Does any of that help? I'm sorry I don't know anything more useful.”

“That'll be fine, Miss Locke,” he says, putting his notepad away. “Thank you for coming in.”

“Sure. I'm just glad I could help.”

Tim had it harder with Hadley, like he predicted he would, but the detectives leave a little while later. The stories matched, and there was no call to pursue it further. That'll be that.

Jessica stands upwind from Tim as he smokes outside.

“Thank you,” he says. “I'm really glad I ran into you.”

She looks at the ground for a bit. Her laundry bag is still in the back of Jay's car.

“Can I see him when he gets out?” she asks.

Tim shrugs, focusing on finishing his cigarette. “I don't know if that's the best thing right away,” he says. “He's gonna be pretty messed up for a while, I think. But soon, okay? I'll definitely tell him I saw you.”

Tim's a good liar, too.

It takes one to know.

“Okay,” she says, looking away.

He drops the stub and grinds it out with his shoe. “I'll drive you home,” he says.

She nods and gets into the car. It's a fifteen minute drive and she has so much she could ask in that amount of time, but she's learned by now to wait. She's patient. She has no other choice.


	9. Entry #81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ everything is normal / everything is fine / I worry about nothing / because nothing's on my mind ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -self-loathing, implied suicide ideation, destructive emotional cycles

Two days later Tim turns the camera back on.

The first thing it records is Jay, unconscious, arm cast and slung across his chest, lying on his back in Tim's bed. He looks somehow paler and more emaciated than usual, but he's breathing, and that's something. He'd been conscious long enough to acknowledge Tim and to get himself discharged; as soon as dealing with hospital bureaucracy had stopped being his problem he'd passed back out and stayed there. Probably for the better.

Tim doesn't linger on him. The point is just to show the viewers—whoever the fuck is still watching this, it burns him up sometimes to think about them, watching, nail-biting, gossiping probably, he doesn't know, he avoids it for the most part—that Jay is still alive. This accomplished, he films himself puttering about the house for a while, force of habit, or trying to create the impression that this is winding down. The mystery has ground to a halt out of necessity and they're going to stop now, for good. This is the message he has to convey. Convincing Jay to accept it will be an uphill struggle, Tim knows that. For now, he focuses on the anonymous internet mass. Go about your business. Nothing to see here. Everything is fine.

He opens Jay's laptop to get at the simple template for text that they always use. He types each segment numbly, without pausing to think about it:

_Jay and I are okay. He's been in the hospital and now he's staying with me. Doctor says he'll be fine._

_Alex is gone, the person wearing the hoodie is gone. Nothing else has happened since._

_I just hope this is finally over._

He hesitates there, then deletes that sentence. Too much truth bleeding through. Need something a little more solid, more confident.

Nothing's coming to him. There's just not enough _to_ this entry. There's always an impulse to make them into little narratives, Jay often had that bent to his editing style and it's hard not to fall into it. And this is anticlimactic as hell. The last thing YouTube saw was Entry 80, which Tim had wearily, miserably uploaded out of some sense of obligation two nights previous. The camera hadn't picked up much once Jay had dropped it, and the chest-mounted one had stopped working somewhere in the interim, leaving much of the shitshow to play out off-screen. Nonetheless, it was clear who was dead, and that Jay had come very close to adding Tim's body to the pile.

Sure would be nice to put people's minds to rest about _that_. Would be nice to put his own mind to rest about it.

Left with no other ideas, he clicks half-heartedly through Jay's video files, looking for stuff he hasn't seen, anything he might be able to use as filler. Most of it is just the usual stuff that never makes it to YouTube—hours of driving, sleeping (trying to sleep), sitting, waiting, wandering around.

And then he stumbles upon a raw file tucked away in its own folder, not kept with the others.

It's dated earlier than the most recent stuff. He checks the computer's calendar, cross-references with the upload dates. He stares at the file name, which is just _noentry(1)_ , for a while, not sure he wants to see it. It's the day before Jay came to his house with zipties and his stupid little knife. Presumably after he'd seen the tape.

He breathes out slowly and clicks on it.

He expects to see Jay talking to the camera, justifying the plan he was about to put into action, justifying his newfound distrust of Tim. Honestly that would have been better than this. This—just Jay wandering around, lost, solitary, desperate for some kind of clue to what happened to Jessica (Jessica, who is _fine_ , who woke up in the woods with only half a memory of how she got there and who walked for miles until she found civilization again)—alone in the woods with _that thing_ , he sees it, films it, but he keeps _going_ , the fucking idiot. It's so hard to watch.

Then he gets out his phone.

Tim's stomach twists when he hears his own voice on speaker, and again when Jay starts leaving him a message. _What?_

He grabs his phone fumblingly and checks the record in disbelief. Nothing. No voicemails, no calls received at all that day. What the fuck. _What the fuck_.

“I'm... I'm sorry,” Jay says. Tim looks up. He's never heard Jay's voice sound like that, so fucking sincere it's physically uncomfortable. No, no, _no_. “I know why you kept that tape from me, and we're not gonna get anywhere like this, working solo. So I'm gonna come over at some point tomorrow and we'll figure out what to do next.”

Oh, god.

He's still talking. Tim just wants him to _run_. Get out of the woods, Jay, goddammit, you should never have gone in there alone, you should have _run_ , you _saw it_ and it's still there, watching you from a distance, do you not _see_ it, do you think it's not really there, god Jay, go, _go!_

Even with Jay lying alive and relatively well in the room next to him, he can't keep from nervous fidgeting when Jay's cough starts to overtake him, when he collapses in the shed, when—

Oh no, no, nonono.

Tim pushes his chair violently back from the table, standing, pacing, barely able to keep his eyes on the screen as _it_ appears, hovering over Jay, watching him twist and writhe in the debris, god, no, no, I told him to get help, I _told him_ , and—

—and once again this is my fault.

Not his.

The footage distorts and cuts out. Tim stares at it for a while before sitting back down to fiddle with it. The rest of the file is too corrupted to play. Tim's shoulders slump and he drops his head into his hands, holding himself there for an indeterminate amount of time. He feels sick. Jay was sorry. He understood. He _got it_ , and he was sorry.

And that was taken away from him. From both of them.

Tim wants to set fire to everything. He wants to burn the cameras, the tapes, the computers and his house—he wants it all to come down. Strip it all away until there's nothing, until this _doesn't happen anymore_.

It takes him a long time breathing, coughing, breathing again, before he can look back up at the screen. Gutted, hollowed out, he adds the footage to the entry he's got going, bookending it with some new captions for context. He starts it rendering and walks away. That shit always takes at least an hour.

He drifts back to the bedroom where Jay is still asleep and watches him for a bit. It doesn't sit well at all, watching Jay sleep—he's done it before, sure, after they visited Alex's house he kind of had to, but before that too, of course. Much, much earlier, though that he doesn't remember it. Perched on Jay's dresser, hovering over him like a vulture. The stupid mask is still in his bag. He found it (he always finds it) after everything, lying on the ground next to Jay and the camera and Tim's computer. Totheark had brought it to him, stolen it right out of his car; he'd rejected it, but there it was again. He'd taken it because he always takes it, eventually, and when he doesn't it comes to him again, somehow or other. That he wants to burn most of all. He wants it gone. Destroyed. No more a part of him.

He can't do that and he knows it.

It's always there.

His last resort.

It'll never sit well, watching Jay sleep. He does it now because he doesn't know what else to do, and because he recognizes that some part of him needs it. He needs to see Jay breathing, even if it's just those weak, shallow breaths, even if he looks like he's been through hell, which he has, and even though there's no way to guess what he'll be like when he wakes up. Tim needs to see him breathe because it reminds him to do the same, like watching someone come up from drowning. As long as Jay breathes, you breathe, because he needs you now. You're all he has. And he's all you have. This is what's left.

He forces himself to leave the room. Goes back to the computer, dully monitors the render and export process. Uploads to YouTube. Goes to the couch and curls up and tries to shut himself off. He probably won't succeed tonight, but it's good form to try.


	10. [ so much more than time ]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some stuff that already happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -social anxiety  
> -mind invasion/control  
> -depersonalization  
> -death

Tim answers the door with a cigarette between his lips. It's becoming easier not to comment on it—Tim doesn't respond well to pressure, even gentle and well-intentioned, so it's better to simply refrain. He'll quit when he quits, is what he always says.

“Hey man. Sorry I'm late.” Brian steps back as Tim locks his door, then turns to lead him to his car. “Are you super hungry?”

“Not starving,” says Tim. “I had kind of a late lunch.” He shivers, his breath clouding along with the smoke. “Jeez, it's freezing out here.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Brian climbs into the driver's seat, Tim takes a long drag on his cigarette before putting it out, as is the custom. Brian doesn't bother him to quit and Tim doesn't smoke in his car. He slides into the passenger seat.

“So I'm late cause... I just remembered this other thing I had today,” says Brian sheepishly. Tim won't complain, he never complains about this kind of thing, but that doesn't mean it's okay to make him wait and then wait more. He fires up the engine and starts to drive. “So I gotta do that first. I'm sorry, it's totally my bad, completely slipped my mind. I promise it'll be quick.”

“It's okay, man.” Tim shrugs, looking a little bit uncertain. “We could just do this another day if you need to?”

“Nah, it's fine, it won't take that long.”

“Mm.” Tim turns his gaze to watch the world slide by out the window. “What is it?”

“It's... an audition,” says Brian. He feels a little embarrassed admitting it, but he cracks a smile when Tim glances back at him, eyebrows raised. “This guy I know, Alex, he's a film student here, and he asked me if I would try out for his movie, and I said I would. And I kinda forgot that was happening today, so. Whoops.”

Tim nods. “I didn't know you were an actor.”

“Not since grade school,” admits Brian. “But I think it'll be fun. He's a cool guy.”

“What's the movie?”

“Um...” Brian hasn't heard much, but it hadn't necessarily sounded very cool. Which is part of the point. He has the feeling not a lot of people are going to try out for this thing. Alex is a nice kid but he doesn't seem to have that many friends, and Brian's heard more than a few film students talking shit about his work. So yeah, the movie might be dumb, but how's Alex gonna get practice making them if nobody will give him a chance? “I think it's a romance or something? It has a real weird title, Marble something, uh... Marble Hornets, I think.”

“ _What_?” Tim starts to laugh. “That sounds like some kind of weird thing you'd find in like a novelty store off the interstate.”

“Right?” Brian can't keep from giggling—he feels a little bad, but it's always nice to hear Tim laugh. Kind of a rarity. Too quickly it transitions into a cough, that real bad smoker's hack he has sometimes, and Brian's smile fades a little. He worries about that, wishes he'd be more open to talking about... Well, whatever. It's his life. He's gotta make those decisions on his own.

“I should ask him what it means,” he says once Tim's cough has lapsed away. “Or maybe I shouldn't. It can just be an ongoing mystery.”

“Yeah, that'll be good,” says Tim lightly.

Brian grins and pulls into the parking lot outside one of the film buildings. “It's in here,” he says. “You wanna come with? You can just hang out in the hall and listen to me being terrible.”

“Sure, okay.” Tim gets out, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

Brian leads him into the building, strolls through the hall toward the room where Alex is holding the auditions. He steps in to see Alex sitting in front of his little camera set up, head tilted like maybe he was listening to the approaching footsteps. Alex turns to look at him and rolls his chair quickly around to the other side of his camera table.

“Hey!” says Alex brightly.

Brian lifts a hand. “Hey Alex.”

“Hey, Brian.” Alex is acting real casual, immediately checking on his camera, fiddling around with his setup. Brian looks at the notepad and pile of scripts he has set out next to the door.

“Am I late for the audition?” he asks.

“No, you're actually just in time,” says Alex. “I was just about to pack up, but, uh, we can still fit you in.”

He hadn't looked about to pack up, but Brian doesn't question it. Alex works hard and he's proud of it, no need to call him out. Still, just for conversation's sake, he says, “Were there a lot of other people today?”

Alex hesitates slightly before nodding. “Uh... there's some competition!” He smiles and nods at the pile of scripts. “Uh, if you just want to grab a script of the top there and have a seat...”

“Okie-doke,” he says, picking up a script and coming over toward the camera. He's vaguely aware of Tim sort of hovering outside the room and hopes he's not too bored. He points to the chair. “Right here?”

“Yup.”

“All right.” Brian sits down. “Man, it is _cold_ outside today.” He wonders if Alex has been out since he came in for this. Probably been waiting staunchly in here all day, poor guy. At least it's warm.

“So just scoot on up to the table there,” says Alex, already watching him attentively, very directorial.

Brian pulls his chair a little closer to the camera than he'd ordinarily feel comfortable with. It's kinda weird being filmed like this, but that's probably how the whole movie's gonna be, so, better get used to it now, right? “Right here?”

“Yep. And... say your name to the camera?”

“Kay. Um...” Brian looks at the camera, feeling suddenly a little shy with the lens staring right at him like that. Why's Alex need his name? “I'm Brian?” He glances at Alex for guidance.

“Full name,” prompts Alex.

Brian can't help it—he snickers softly. Oh, Alex. So serious. “That _is_ my full name,” he jokes, and giggles, part of him just feeling punchy while being filmed.

Alex hesitates, like he's not sure what to do with the joke, or not sure if he wants to enforce his rule, before saying, “Well, _I_ know who you are, so.”

He seems so on edge. Brian almost feels bad messing with him, but then, it'll be good, won't it, Alex getting more comfortable around people? Maybe he'll learn to lighten up a bit.

“So, I'm gonna be reading the other character's lines to you,” Alex goes on, looking at his own copy of the script. “You are, oddly enough, going to be reading for the character of Brian!”

“Oh wow, really?” Brian feels almost genuinely flattered—Alex had asked him specifically if he'd audition, he wouldn't be surprised if he'd named the character after him. That's neat. And hey, it'll be easy to remember. “That's like the one thing I _am_ good at it,” he quips, and actually manages to get a laugh out of Alex this time. Progress already.

“So... what I want you to do is... don't overthink it too much.” Brian nods, going serious, listening carefully. “Just... what I want is gut emotional reactions, you know what I mean? Just _feel_ your way through it. Does that make sense?”

Brian hesitates. It absolutely does not make sense, or at least it sounds like the kind of thing directors say to actors, but he's barely an actor, and he has no idea what to make of all that. But he doesn't want to ask too many questions or make Alex feel like he's doing a bad job, so he just nods decisively and says, “Yes.”

“Okay.” Alex turns back to his script. “So, we're just gonna start at the top of the next page over there...”

“Okay.” Brian turns the page and glances over it, pointing to the first segment labeled BRIAN. “Right here?”

Alex glances up. “Ahh... yes.”

“Okay.” Brian scans the lines, trying to get himself prepped, feeling a little bit stupid.

“And just start whenever you're ready,” says Alex.

Brian doesn't really feel ready, and isn't sure how to get there. He draws a breath, holds it for a moment, and then releases it, feeling no different, no better prepared. Oh well. Now or never.

“It's just not the same as it used to be,” he reads. “We were young, and we were so happy. I felt like... like she was my little secret.” His lips quirk into a smile, trying to embody a person talking about someone special, fond memories and shit, confiding in a friend... He can do this. “Now that time is past, and...” he shakes his head a little, endeavoring to look solemn, “...that's not the case anymore. Like she's no longer my little secret. It's like everyone knows.”

Alex reads in a monotone, hurrying through it, just giving the cue: “Maybe she never was to begin with, maybe what you really believed in was a lie.”

“Yeah, but it felt so _real_ back then,” says Brian with a little more passion. That feels better, like hitting a stride maybe. Easier when there's someone to respond to. “It was almost like...” He sighs, pacing himself. “It was like for a while there,” he looks up, meeting Alex's eyes, “I truly believed in magic.”

Alex seems pleased by the eye contact, but he looks back down quickly, reading, “There's still magic in this world, Brian, you just have to look in the right place.”

“Well, wherever it is,” says Brian, “it's not here.” He sighs heavily, laying it on maybe a little thick. “Not anymore at least.”

There's a little pause, then Alex says, “Great! That was really good.”

Brian smiles and rocks forward. Nah it wasn't, not _that_ good. But if Alex is happy, he's happy. “Aw man, thanks,” he murmurs. “Hey, did you write this?”

“I did,” says Alex, perking up a little.

“Oh wow, good job, dude!” He means it—sure, it's pretty cheesy, but that's fine. Sounds good enough to him. It's not like _he_ can write anything, much less have other people read it back to him.

“Thank you,” says Alex, averting his eyes again. He probably doesn't get that compliment too often, judging by what his peers have been saying.

Brian smiles warmly. “Yeah, man.”

Alex is already back to fiddling with his scripts. “So, just on your way out, if you would write your name and email address on that little pad over there...” He points to the other table, and Brian gets up, heading over with a murmured affirmation. “And if you get the part I will be sure to let you know.”

“Okay,” says Brian as he jots the info down. He glances over his shoulder, sees Tim still slouching in the hall. “Hey, you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” says Tim, a little briskly, like he's surprised to have been addressed.

Alex looks up curiously. “Who's that?”

“Oh, that's my buddy Tim.” Brian hopes Alex isn't offended that he didn't introduce them or anything. Tim just tends to be really shy around new people. “Uh, we were just gonna go get dinner after this.”

“Does he wanna try out?”

It's an earnest question, and Brian isn't quite sure how to answer—he doesn't want to push Tim into anything, but he doesn't want to just flat-out deny Alex, either.

“Uhh... I don't really know if that's his thing, you know?”

Alex looks perplexed rather than convinced, like this explanation simply doesn't compute. “Ask him,” he insists eagerly. “See if he wants to audition!”

Well, fair enough. Alex does seem to need the people. And it could be really good for Tim to try something like that.

“Okay,” he relents, and turns, raising his voice a little. “Hey, Tim. You wanna try out?”

Tim doesn't even pause to consider it before shaking his head. “Nah, no, I don't think so. I don't really...”

“Come on, man, it's easy,” says Brian gently. “If I can do it, you can do it.”

Tim gives him a Look, a _please don't ask me to do this_ look.The same look he gives whenever Brian's giving him a hard time about the smoking, or the coughing, or his general seriousness. Yeah, sometimes Brian knows he can get a little annoying, a little pushy. But he knows so many serious people. They need someone to help them all chill, and that's his job, for better or for worse. Help nudge everyone along. Maybe provide a laugh here and there. Someone's gotta do it.

Brian knows this is kind of a scary new thing for Tim, but he feels okay pushing this one time. “Come _onnn_.” He smiles encouragingly. He's not even gonna leave the room. He'll be right here.

Tim sighs reluctantly, dipping his head with a put-upon not-quite-smile, like he knows he isn't gonna win this one. “Okay,” he says, and as he brushes past, Brian hears him mutter, “If Brian says I should.” Brian laughs good-naturedly and steps over to the door, leaning against the frame to watch.

“Great,” says Alex, sounding genuinely pleased. “Just have a seat there, Tim.”

“Hey, how you doing,” murmurs Tim, too quiet for Alex to even notice; Brian only catches it because he's so accustomed to that.

“Uh, here, you can use that script there,” Alex is saying, handing Tim the one Brian had used. “Um, I'm gonna have you read for a different character, if that's okay? Uh, I'll walk you through him, uhh... I don't have a name for him yet, but he's Brian—uh, the main character Brian, not _that_ Brian's, best friend—”

“Yeah,” says Tim, clipped. He gets it.

God, these two. Brian can't help but swallow down a laugh. They're both so _awkward._ Alex needing to spell basic shit like that out, Tim just sitting there with no idea what to do... It's kind of adorable.

Alex is still doing his spiel, and Brian forces himself to wear a straight face for it: “Uh, I imagine him kind of cooler, more apathetic, uh... the kind of guy that always has a cigarette in his mouth... And, uh, maybe some sort of facial hair, like, mustache or sideburns, something like that.”

Tim with a mustache. Brian manages not to laugh again, but that would be something. Sideburns would probably look a little better. Maybe he should suggest muttonchops.

“Oh, all right,” says Tim mildly. “Well, I... I already smoke, so I guess I'm already halfway there.”

A soft attempt at humor, completely lost on Alex as usual. Alex sort of smiles awkwardly at his script, totally invested in his work, more so than in validating the little joke; and even though he can't see his face, Brian knows Tim must be mentally berating himself for saying that, must have thought it sounded so dumb,

[ a quick and harshly distant look in his eyes, sudden, brief, and fleeting,  
as though wondering why he ever though his words were worth saying ]

poor guy. Brian looks at the floor. Both Tim and Alex are exactly that insecure, so it kinda makes sense they'd be like this on a first meeting. Maybe that can become friends later. This could be a really good thing for them. Brian and Tim get along so well, but it would probably be good for Tim to have someone he can talk to, someone who gets what a hard time he has just relating to people. Try as he might Brian has never been able to be much help with that.

Alex is making his own weak, flat-falling attempt at humor: “Well, before we get too far ahead of ourselves, let's just start with the reading.”

“All right,” says Tim softly.

\\\\\

“Wasn't so bad, was it?” Brian smiles as they head into the Applebee's.

“I guess.” Tim has been sulking ever since they drove away and trying not to let Brian see it, but Brian's perceptive, and it's hard to stay quiet. “Did you have to invite him along with us?”

“Hey come on, I felt bad.” Brian nods politely at the hostess and motions for two. He glances back at Tim as they follow her to a booth. “He's probably been alone in there all day. Anyway he didn't want to.”

Yeah, thankfully, and because of made-up reasons, Tim would be willing to bet. But that's Alex's business.

“Yeah,” he mutters, sliding into the booth across from Brian. He stares numbly at the brightly colored menus for a moment. “I just feel like it would have been really awkward.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Brian shrugs. “He's an awkward guy. But he's nice, I promise. You just gotta give him a chance.”

Well, of course he's nice to _Brian_. Everyone's nice to Brian, because Brian's nice to everyone else. That's how it works. That's why Brian spends any time with _him_ at all.

“Are you gonna do the movie if he gives you the part?”

Tim glances up at Brian and then shrugs, looking away. He shouldn't be such a little shit about this. Brian was just trying to do something nice for him and for Alex. “I dunno, maybe,” he says.

“You should.” Brian flips through his menu. “We'll get to hang out on set and stuff. And you can grow a mustache or sideburns.”

Finally Tim laughs at that, putting a hand over his face. “Was he for real about that?”

“Probably.” Brian grins at him. “I bet you'd look good with sideburns.”

“Whatever.” Tim smirks and shakes his head. “Yeah, we'll see if he asks me.”

“I bet he will,” says Brian.

///

Alex is really, really starting to get on his nerves. Brian has always had nothing but patience for his friends, always goes out of his way to be as good-natured as possible, but _man_ it has been getting hard lately. For everyone. Tim's been complaining about it too, and Sarah and Seth... Alex has been getting real mean, there's no denying it. Brian knows he's been stressed out, but it's starting to get intolerable. Today at least he's been agreeable enough, but that doesn't make it easier for Brian, not today. Today, for whatever reason, he feels nervous.

“Are you sure we should be here?” he asks for like the millionth time, he can _feel_ Alex getting impatient with him, but he can't help it, he just keeps feeling like _something_ is there, behind him, watching him. It's totally irrational, but. Things have been so weird lately, there's so many nights where he can't quite remember what he's been doing, and even though it's just, whatever, superstition, random association, he's started to feel like doing these scenes is bad luck or something. Right now the paranoia is getting out of control. He just wants to get out of here.

Alex levels a cold stare at him. “It's fine, Brian,” he says like a parent struggling to keep his cool with a fussy child.

“I'm... I was just wondering,” mutters Brian a little defensively. “Like I don't want someone to like walk in on us and like us getting... arrested or something.”

Or something.

“Well, the sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave, so just...” Alex fixes him with a somewhat steely gaze, quite unlike him, or at least it would have been unlike him if Brian had seen it months ago. Something is really wrong with him but he's not sure how to even ask about it.

“Okay.” Brian sighs and rests his head against the wall, hands jammed into his pockets.

“Bear with me,” murmurs Alex.

Yeah, that's what he's _been_ doing. He feels so absurdly awkward, this whole movie has gotten to feel so pretentious and pointless, why did he agree to do this, why did he drag Tim into it? He didn't used to be so bitter. He's just in a really bad mood right now or something.

Whatever. They'll get through it and it'll be fine.

It all happens at once. He goes silent, Alex lifts his head to stare at something over his shoulder, he feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle, and for a moment he feels like he just can't move.

Something is wrong.

Hello again.

Do you remember me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He staggers, crunching through rocks and broken glass. There's a long blank gap in his head. Something happened there, but it's gone now. Alex is gone, too. The camera is abandoned on the ground. How much time has passed? What did he forget? He feels a tight pressure in his chest, cold sweat down his back, a dull swell of pain in his head. He scrambles toward the camera. What's happening?

“Alex!” he shouts. He picks up the camera, which is still recording, and begins to carry it around, not sure what else to do. “Alex, where are you? _Alex_!”

No reply. Nothing. He starts picking his way through this little maze of a building, frustrated, afraid. “Alex!”

What if he's alone? What if something happened and he doesn't remember and Alex is just gone? His breathing becomes heavy, labored. He starts to cough but manages to hold it back. “ _Alex_!”

He calls the name again and again as he hurries down the hall, desperate to find _something_. Finally, distantly, he hears a cough, and he picks up his pace. “Alex? Where are you?!”

He pushes himself around the corner, rushing toward the cough, calling the name again, desperate for a response. The noise is coming from one of the crumbling rooms. He stops outside it and turns. His stomach drops. He stares in disbelief.

Tim is here. Why is Tim here? He's curled up in the corner, huddled under a dirty blanket and shaking with each sickening cough. Why, _why?_

“Tim?!” He goes into the room, stepping closer to his friend, god, what happened to him, how did he get here, what is he doing here? “Tim!” He looks over his shoulder, frantic, trying not to lose his shit. “Alex! Seriously, come on!”

Something—not a sound, nothing natural, but _something_ pulls him to look behind him. There's a shape in the door and he's already crying “Alex?” before he sees

no no no

he thinks his knees hit the floor; there's pain coming from somewhere other than his head, but it scarcely registers and doesn't matter—Tim is still choking and coughing behind him but he doesn't have the strength to get up, to face him, to protect him from—from—

oh god what is it, _what is it_

Come here.

no no please no

Come here, little creature.

no

You are mine now.

You are cared for.

All of you.

 

 

 

(it's a matter of moments for Alex to knock you out, drag you away, leave you there to founder, but you won't remember that and it, too, won't matter)

 

 

 

_no_

no

you can have me

but not tim

You do not command me, boy.

please

please don't take tim

please.

 

 

\\\\\

You still remember some of it.

Most of it is gone. Immaterial. Blurred away by Its constant invasions, all that breakage, all that fraying. But you were stronger to begin with. You fought back and told It not to take your friend the liar, not that It listened. Your friend doesn't remember you. Not very well. But you remember him. Somewhat. And there are still ways to protect him.

Sometimes you know there's something wrong there. You remember that your memory is faulty. But whose isn't?

He hates you now. You don't mean to hurt him. You never wanted to. It is so difficult after all this time to remember what you wanted.

Didn't you used to talk all the time?

All the time.

Things are quieter now.

But that's how it must be. Silence is the price you pay. One of the prices.

He'll know soon, one way or another, and it will end. The ark awaits. It will take you in, eventually. There is no avoiding that.

For now you must wait. Pieces are close to falling into place now. And you are patient. And you are silent.

///

No words when he kills you.

You carry the record in your pocket, at least. You took it from the weapon to remind yourself that this is how you once were. Even if you are not that anymore. Even if no one would remember. Least of all you.

The liar will have that, at least, if he looks, and he will. You have his medicine, so he certainly will.

That might be enough.


	11. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's bring Jay up to speed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -references to gun violence  
> -trauma and anxiety  
> -discussion of death  
> -minor depersonalization/dissociation

Jay wakes with a start, sweat-soaked and shaking over a dream he already doesn't remember. Where is he, how did he get her, what day is it, etc. Waking up disoriented isn't new, but that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. He struggles to sit up, biting down hard on sharp, surprising pain from his left shoulder.

Okay. Right. He was shot. Alex shot him.

And he shot Alex.

A heavy piece of information. He can't lift it, can't yet carry it with him, so he leaves it where it is for now.

He knows this place. This is Tim's house.

He realizes that he woke up because he heard something, and he's still hearing it. Human sounds, muffled but recognizable. Something he's heard before, and it makes his stomach turn to remember: finally getting the chest camera back from Tim, finally watching the footage from that missing time with equal parts impatience and dread. It was like watching torture, and torture to watch, long and slow and exhausting, Tim cycling rapidly from gibbering terror to sick, hopeless sobbing. It's the latter he's hearing again now.

“Tim?” His mouth is dry and he barely makes a sound, his voice cracked and ghostly from lack of use. He stumbles out of bed, legs shaky and almost useless, bracing on the wall with his one good hand. He tries to clear his throat and quakes, crumpling halfway as a cough rises up and overpowers him temporarily.

By the time that storm has subsided, so have the sobs. He pulls himself out of the bedroom, down the hall, into the kitchen.

Tim is sitting at the counter, computer set in front of him, hooked up to what Jay recognizes as his camera. Tim's head is in his hands, fingers digging deep into his hair—pulling, Jay can see the strain of it, his knuckles bloodless white. Tim doesn't seem aware of his presence.

“Tim?” he says softly, and Tim jumps, turning so quickly he unbalances right off his stool, staggering to keep himself upright. Jay jerks back, holding out a pacifying hand. The staredown is brief; Tim is quick to wipe his arm roughly across his face, but not quick enough that Jay doesn't catch the streaks of dried tears.

Jay shifts his weight, trying to ignore the throbbing ache in his shoulder. “What happened?” he says, not sure he wants the answer (he was never sure he wanted any of these answers, but he _needed_ them—and that was always the problem).

“Jesus.” Tim presses a hand to one eye, rubbing at the brow. “How long have you been up?”

“Since just now.” Jay looks vacantly at the window, the curtain-muffled daylight beyond it. “How long was I out?”

“This is day three,” says Tim. “I mean, you've been conscious, but not really _here_ , you know? I've been trying to keep you hydrated. Helped you to the bathroom a couple times. Do you remember any of that?”

Jay doesn't remember anything after shooting Alex in the head. He looks blankly at the floor, his lack of response probably all the answer Tim needs.

“Well, how are you feeling now?” There's a distant air of concern, maybe, buried beneath the stilted tone of going through conversational motions. Like Tim is asking because he has to, like he's reading off a script. Hah. That's funny.

“Um, okay, I guess,” he says. He doesn't really want to unpack that right now. He nods to the computer. “What's going on?”

Tim slumps slightly, turning his head away, staring instead at the counter, the camera. Silent for a long time, leaving Jay to wait in growing discomfort. What is this? What's he going to say?

Finally: “Do you remember what happened to the person in the hoodie?” His voice is dull and hollow.

Everything from that day is a pockmarked stain in his memory, something he doesn't want to get too close to yet, but he remembers something about that, a gunshot, a body falling. “I think so,” he says. “You, uh...”

“I thought he was Alex.” Tim says it so quickly his voice shakes a little. “I thought it was Alex following me and I just—”

He breaks off, his breath shuddering, curling and uncurling a tight fist.

“I mean, he was a threat too,” ventures Jay uncertainly. “It was self-defense either way, wasn't—”

Tim cuts him off with a horrible strained sound that turns distressingly into a laugh, sick and forced, covering his face again, pressing his hand hard enough against his skin that it looks painful.

“Tim,” says Jay, bewildered, no idea _what the fuck_ to do with this.

“Just fucking _look_ ,” says Tim curtly. He pushes the laptop toward Jay and retreats immediately, moving to the opposite end of the room. He folds his arms tightly and stares out the window as though he can see through the curtains.

Jay inches closer, not sure what he's about to see, not sure if he wants to see it.

It's a YouTube video. Tim's been busy, it seems. Entry 82? The last one he remembers is 79. He imagines 80 or 81—or possibly both—must deal with what happened at Benedict Hall, and he's in no great rush to watch that. He clicks on the video.

_Entry #82_

_I watched the tape that was in the hooded person's pocket._

Jay sits down gingerly, watching with first confusion and then slow, devouring dread as the video unfolds. A young, normal, human Alex preparing excitedly for Marble Hornets auditions, the arrival of Brian, the first meeting of Alex and Tim... so long ago, but not long enough to account for how horribly alien it all seems now, how unfamiliar those normal boys are.

He chews his lower lip and glances over at Tim. He and Brian were really close, weren't they? He never really got to know Brian, or at least he doesn't remember getting to know him. But it looks like Brian and Tim were pretty good friends. This must have been hard to watch, knowing what became of Brian.

Is it just that? Is that enough to make Tim _this_ upset? Just missing his friend, just the reminder that he was once normal and...

and...

Jay feels himself sink forward a little when he realizes, so, so belatedly, what Brian is _wearing_.

“No,” he hears himself say as the younger Tim fumbles through his audition, and suddenly the video cuts out.

_Brian was one of the few friends I had back then._

_He was wearing the same hoodie that day during the audition._

_I had no way of knowing it was Brian under there. I'm not sure what I would have done if I had known that beforehand._

_Maybe nothing would have changed._

_Doesn't really matter now._

The video ends. Jay stares at the related video suggestions, almost all previous entries, for a long time before finally turning back to Tim.

Tim is still standing there, but his posture has sagged, his head lowered into one hand, the other arm still wrapped around himself like he's trying to hold himself up. He's trembling visibly.

Jay doesn't know what to do. He can't even remember how he feels about Tim. Is he still angry or are they allies again? Is Tim a traitor or a confidante? Neither? Both?

Does any of _that_ matter now?

Jay slides somewhat unsteadily off the stool and takes a few faltering steps toward Tim. He has nothing to say here, but he has to speak. Someone has to. “Tim,” he says, and Tim's shoulders seize, but Jay steps closer. “Tim, it's okay.”

“How is it okay?!” Tim explodes, turning like he's about to strike, and Jay flinches back, almost stumbling. Tim stands his ground, letting his anger burn, wiping obsessively and almost violently at the tears that continue to betray him. “All this time I thought Brian was dead, I thought Alex killed him and left him in that hospital, but he—he was _here_ , this whole time he was here, and I never knew it, and I—” His voice gives out and he covers his face, still speaking through his hands, reminding Jay uncomfortably of his whole hospital confession. “I killed him,” he whispers. “I killed him, I killed my friend. This all happened because of me and _I killed my only friend_.”

“Tim,” Jay tries to interject, but again it's utterly aimless. Tim pitches suddenly, sinking down to the floor, seemingly against his will, like his legs have given out. Jay startles, reaches out for him, but he wouldn't have the strength to hold him up even with both arms, and he ends up coming down as well, kneeling opposite him, a hand resting awkward and dormant on his arm.

Tim sobs again, thick and ugly sounds dampened by his own hands, too much like what happened in Entry 65. Jay feels cornered, wishes he'd stayed in bed, wishes he hadn't gotten up for this. He feels guilty wishing that, but he's no _good_ for this kind of thing. What does he do? He never knows.

“You didn't know,” he says after a moment.

“I _should have_ ,” Tim fires back, and a shudder rips through him. “I should have, I should have—I—” He lapses into muffled incoherence.

Jay bites his lip again, tastes a little bit of blood. He swallows and forces himself to move his hand up to Tim's back. Comforting motions. He can do those, right? Even if he has no idea where they stand, no idea what's happening to him, no idea what to say, and no idea what Tim's feeling—he can still rub his hand on Tim's back, which changes absolutely nothing, fixes nothing, and feels horrendously awkward besides.

Tim does go quieter, though whether from the gesture or from sheer exhaustion is anyone's guess. He curls over, shaking and breathing heavily for a moment before finally wiping his eyes again and looking up.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters. “This is the last thing you need to deal with right now.”

“I...” What the hell can he say to that? “It's... fine.”

Well, except it's not, at all. In any way. For either of them. And they both know it.

Tim looks away for a while, then inches back, squirming subtly out from under Jay's hand. He stands up and helps Jay up as well, and that's that.

“Anyway it's out there now,” he mumbles, walking back over to the kitchen. “So people know, at least.”

Jay looks at the floor, at his bandaged arm, at Tim as he drifts around his kitchen like he's in a trance. “Are you okay?” he asks after a moment.

Again Tim laughs, if it can be called that, a dark, humorless little sound that dies just as quickly as it came. “I'm not dead yet,” he says wearily, a tired little coda. After a moment, “Are you hungry?” He starts going through his cabinets.

Jay stares at him. “Yeah,” he admits.

“I gotta get groceries soon,” says Tim, pulling a can out of a cupboard and checking the ingredients. “Soup okay?”

“Sure.” Jay glides back over to the counter and sits down, pointedly avoiding looking at the computer or the camera. So now they pretend to be normal. Okay. He can do that, too.

He stays quiet, half-watching Tim move around until his attention gravitates inevitably to the computer. He thumbs clumsily at the trackpad and pulls up Entry 81. He feels oddly uncomfortable with the idea of watching it in front of Tim, but his curiosity is stronger, so he takes the necessary pains to turn the volume down and nervously clicks play.

He stares numbly at the footage of himself sleeping, followed by some clips of Tim doing nothing. There's a substantial portion of time left on this video, which makes him nervous. Tim wouldn't upload nearly ten minutes of himself making coffee and cleaning. Something had to happen.

When a caption comes up explaining that Tim saw fit to dig through _his_ files, he feels a little twinge of anger rising up again, that same nauseating sensation he'd felt before, difficult to stamp out no matter how irrational he _knows_ it is, how indefensible and pointless. He's distracted from it almost immediately when he sees himself sitting in his car, picking up the camera, walking toward—is that Rosswood?

Wait, when did this happen? He pulls the slider back and stares in cold confusion at the statement that this was the day before he'd returned to Tim's house.

This memory is gone. Just like so many others, he'll have to recover it by watching it play out from his own hand. There's something so alienating about that, every time. Like this is someone else living your life. Or like you're someone else now. A constant reiteration, each time a little less of what he was before.

It takes him a long time to notice that Tim has stopped moving. There's the vague realization that there's no longer kitchen noise happening—soup's simmering in a pot but not being stirred. Tim is standing stock still, his arms limp at his sides, his back still turned. Listening, presumably. Waiting.

Jay's attention is drawn back to the video when he hears himself stumbling. He watches cold and unnaturally calm as his past self is pushed once, twice into different spaces and apparently doesn't even notice. Or maybe he just didn't think it worth comment. It's not like it would have been new, after all.

His stomach pitches before the camera even catches It—by now of course he knows the tearing and the distortions well enough to know it's coming. There it is, his sudden stiffening and sharp pull back mirrors the frantic motions of his past self, but then it's gone and he apparently decides that it maybe wasn't there at all. Past Jay starts moving again, toward that fucking shack. He feels sick. He's shaking. He reaches out to stop the video. He doesn't think he can get through this. He'll ask Tim to summarize. That'll—

Tim's voice is a surprise, tinny on the computer speakers and filtered through his own phone. Jay's hand goes still, hovering above the trackpad, staring in gradually increasing confusion as he hears himself talk. Explaining himself. Giving away his location, his plans. _Apologizing_.

Saying he understands.

Offering to make peace.

It sounds all wrong. Why would he say this? Why would he surrender like that?

He doesn't remember feeling the way he felt then. He can't _imagine_ feeling it. That's all gone now. Scratched out of him.

Tim saved his life, he supposes he has to concede that, by bringing him to the hospital.

But he is still a liar.

Jay watches with no particular feeling as he coughs himself into collapse, as It appears over him. He can't quite watch that part. Tips his head down, averts his eyes, endures it peripherally. Maybe that's a weird response. Maybe, but that's a far away thought right now.

The entry finally ends, and slowly he looks up at Tim, who has turned, is now watching him. They stare at each other for a while, neither saying anything, until finally Tim turns away again, ladles some soup into a bowl, and sets it in front of Jay, moving the computer and other ephemera aside.

That's all.

Nothing to say. Not for now.

Probably for the better.

Jay eats in silence, as quickly as he can stomach it. Tim washes dishes. He leaves about half the bowl, unable to swallow any more, slides off the stool and hobbles to the bathroom.

He gropes around for a toothbrush, finding a serendipitously packaged one in a drawer. Brushes mechanically, stares at himself in the mirror for a while. Wanders out, back to the bedroom.

Is he just not going to say anything about it?

Probably not yet. Tim doesn't seem surprised or particularly eager to rush into that conversation.

He doesn't even know what he'd say. He doesn't remember how to trust. Did he ever know how? Is that one of the parts that's gone forever?

So much is washed away, and washing away still.

What is left?

His good hand is still buzzing faintly, wishing it had something to hold onto. Gun, knife, flashlight, camera. There are no eyes on him here, no camera unless Tim decides to point it at him for those little moments.

Can't figure this out right now. Can't do it. Too much of it, punctuated by soup and awkward departure, no idea how to proceed, how to pretend to be human. He wants to sleep again. Sleep wasn't good but it was simple.

He drifts away turning over half-clipped memories.


	12. we're not doing entries anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, so like, remember when I was updating this all the time??? Yeah. Sorry. About that. Got busy, got distracted, lost the thread of the story for a while, you know how it is probably. But I'm back and I have every intention of finishing this thing, wherever it goes.
> 
> This chapter is on the short side and it's sort of a montage of time-passing which isn't very exciting after a long break but I think it'll serve to lead into some new things, finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -self-loathing aplenty  
> -depression, avoidance

Well that was a fucking bust.

Tim finishes washing up and then puts everything away. Unusual for him, just cleaning up after himself like that. But he needs to do something because if he stops moving he thinks about Brian, he thinks about Alex, and he thinks about Jay walking away from him, away from the revelation that _somewhere_ in there he forgave Tim for lying. And his hands start to shake and he remembers how much he hates himself. So he cleans instead.

When he runs out of shit to clean he steps out for a cigarette.

He wants to leave. Just get out of the house, county, state. Leave Jay there. Leave it all behind.

He knows he's too chickenshit. And this is all his fault.

Time to accept some fucking responsibility.

After the second cigarette he goes back inside and paces around the house, looking for something, anything to do. God, this is torture. Absolutely mind-numbing torture. Waiting for Jay to get back up. Waiting for the next thing. Can't it just be over. Can't this just be _done_.

It's so simple for the anonymous followers, everyone who's been tweeting Jay about codes and whatever. No more entries. Story's over kids, go home. But he has to sit in it, live with it, with everything he's done, everything he caused, everyone who is dead because of him.

He forages through his house looking for instruments to play. Remember when you were just a music student? Remember that? And you only knew Brian and that was easy, it was simple. The past was something you could afford not to look too closely at. Remember?

He pulls out his uke but that reminds him too much of Alex and his dumbshit movie trailer. He finds his banjo, tunes it, and strums for a while.

For a little while it's kind of soothing, just sitting and watching the sun go down, plucking away at strings to form no particular melody.

It doesn't last. Nothing does. Maybe that can be okay.

Tim knows he's hanging by a thread.

 

The next day Jay's up and about, showering, trying irritably to dress himself without assistance, which is a failure. He allows Tim to help and they don't talk and they don't make eye contact. Tim makes him food, Jay leaves him alone. For a while it seems like the whole day's going to go by without a word exchanged, until Tim catches Jay fiddling one-handed with his camera.

He steps over and rests his hand on the device.

Jay looks up at him, cold, accusatory, and Tim stands his ground.

“No more,” he says. “We're not doing this anymore.”

It's calm, there's no threat behind it. Jay stares at him like he wants a fight, but in the end he just slumps away and lets Tim take the camera from him.

Tim hides it.

 

Days pass and Tim loses track. He starts going out more, leaving Jay at home to do fuck-all with his time, heal up, watch public access shows with that numb expression, stare at things like he's in another place. It's creepy and Tim wants nothing to do with it. So Tim goes out, gets his prescription refills, lies and cheats his way into getting an extra bottle. He leaves it by Jay's bedside, next to the (actually prescribed) pain meds for his shoulder, and checks it periodically. It doesn't look like Jay's taking any. Neither of them mention it.

Tim comes home one late afternoon to find Jay sitting on the floor staring into the hallway.

“What?” he says.

Jay doesn't respond for a moment, then looks up at him, blinking as if coming out of a trance.

“Where were you?” he asks, sleepy-voiced.

Tim stares at him, glances up the hall, and shakes his head, willing himself to just move away from it, not think about it, just sets his groceries down on the counter and starts putting them away.

“I got a job,” he says. “Since my old one wouldn't take me back. Gonna be working nights at a switchboard.” May as well put his insomnia to good use, right? “We need money. I can't keep dipping into my savings account, man.”

Jay doesn't reply, and so Tim thinks that is that. He goes about putting things away, neatening up. If this lifestyle has done anything for him at least it's made him clean more often.

And then Jay says, “Where's my camera.”

It's not a question. He doesn't inflect it with curiosity. It's a demand.

Tim sighs, shoulders slumping, and he turns around.

Jay's looking at him, challenging. “Where is it, Tim.”

Tim shakes his head. “No.”

“Answer me.” Jay pushes himself up to his feet, grunting with the effort. He's no longer wearing the sling, but he's still awkward and even clumsier than usual. Legs shaky but otherwise resolute, he steps over to the counter. “Where did you put it.”

“You don't need it anymore, Jay,” snaps Tim, his tone sharpening. “This is all over. Okay? We're not running anymore. Nothing's after us. Nothing's happened in _weeks_. We're both going to just stop, and work on getting better, and that's the end of it.”

Liar. Idiot, besides. You know Jay's not better. If anything he's getting worse. You see the look in his eyes, that nasty, cold, inhuman expression sitting there, couched in contempt. It got into his head and you haven't flushed it out. Just because Alex is gone doesn't mean anything is over. It will probably never be over, at least not for you.

“Is that what you think?” Jay says with an almost taunting air, sounding too, too much like Alex. “That there's nothing after us?”

Tim looks at him, and glances again at the hall. “What do you mean?” he says, playing intentionally coy, because he won't just go _looking_ , he can't afford to right now. If Jay sees something he'll say so. Right?

Jay makes a disgusted sound and pushes away from the counter, stalking back to the bedroom that has become his.

Tim stands there for several minutes.

He pulls out his phone and hesitates for a long time before he punches in a text.

_Status?_

It only takes a few minutes for Jessica to answer, _Quo._

He smirks faintly and without much humor.

_We need to meet_.

He promised her she'd get to see Jay and that was a lie. He'd promised himself he would leave her alone, let her just get away from all this, and _that_ was a lie. He shouldn't be surprised. And really, he isn't.

It takes a few minutes extra for Jessica to answer, _Denny's?_

Sure. Tim huffs out a laugh at the forced normalcy of it and replies to set up a time. He tucks his phone back in his pocket and looks again at the hall.

He steps out of the kitchen and moves slowly over to the mouth of the hall, which is dark, all the doors to the individual rooms closed, cutting off the outside light.

Tim stands there for a long moment, studying the edges of the walls and the floor, the relative silence of the house.

There's nothing. Nothing is there.

Everything is fine.

He steps away.


	13. What We Talk About When We Talk At Denny's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jessica and Tim meet at Denny's. Things go in a direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -avoidance, memory loss, depressing life upheaval  
> -harassment, misogyny, and threats of violence toward the end  
> -including heavy use of gendered slurs -- mostly b####, one c###  
> -that kind of euphoria that shares physical symptoms with panic attacks

3am is a perfectly fine time to be ordering waffles, and Jessica orders waffles for two, eyes on the menu, on her phone, never on the waitress. She taps her fingernails lazily on the table, looking distantly out the window at the dark parking lot and the lights passing up and down the interstate.

Tim steps in about ten minutes late, looking harried as usual. At least, she thinks it's usual. She has no idea, really.

“Sorry I'm late,” he mutters as he pulls out a seat opposite her.

“Yeah, how dare you,” she says dryly. “Missing the start of our 3am brunch at Denny's. Amazingly gauche.”

He looks at her for a moment, thoroughly lost, and she shakes her head, smiling. “I'm joking, Tim. It's fine.”

He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing at it. He's every bit as nervous and ill at ease as when they first met. She can't really blame him for that.

“I hope you like waffles,” she says brightly, “cause I ordered a bunch.” She sets her elbows on the table and slides her arms down in front of her, hands clasped, like they're about to being a conference. “So, what's... going on? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's fine,” he answers too quickly, mumbling and not meeting her eyes. He hesitates when the waitress brings them both water and the tea Jessica ordered, and he asks for some coffee as well.

“It's just, uh...” He rubs a hand over his face. He looks exhausted. “I just wanted to check in. You got the doctor's info I sent you?”

“Yeah.” She sits back, dropping the teabag into the mug. “I got an appointment next week. Thanks.”

“Yeah. Good.” He stares at the table. “I hope it helps.”

And then, nothing. Jessica steeps her tea calmly, pulls the bag out, wraps it around a spoon to squeeze remaining water back into the cup, and sets it aside. She adds sugar, lemon, stirs. Sits back again, holding the mug and staring him down. His coffee comes, he thanks the waitress in an inaudible mumble, and continues to sit. Still nothing, still he won't meet her eyes.

“Tim,” she prompts finally. “What's going on.”

He heaves a sigh and presses both hands to his face, fingers digging into his head as if to soothe a headache. “I don't _know_ ,” he groans, muffled behind his hands. He takes a moment to compose himself and then sits up a little straighter, looking grimly at the table, again.

She tips her head, trying to meet his eyes. “Is this about Jay?”

He doesn't respond, but the slight softening of his features is enough of an answer. “I don't know if he's okay,” he says quietly. “I don't know if he's gonna be.”

She wants to ask when she can see him, but she knows he'll just dodge. Tim doesn't want her to see Jay, and she can't figure out why, but he's so caged up about everything, she can't just _ask._ He already told her a fair amount, that first lunch, almost a month ago. Told her there were parts of the story she was better off not knowing, and much as it grated on her, she believes him.

But there's more, clearly, if he's meeting her for this midlife crisis meal by the goddamn highway.

“You just wanna talk?” she says. She suspects he didn't contact her to get her _help_ with anything, unless he needs to lie to cops again.

“Yeah, I guess.” Finally, he looks at her. He lifts his coffee and takes a sip. “Sorry. There's just... not really anyone else I can...”

“Me neither.” She lifts an eyebrow. “I'd kind of thought I wasn't ever going to get answers for what happened to me. I got used to that expectation.” She sets her tea down, leans a little closer. “I don't mind being that person, Tim.”

He meets her eyes for a few seconds, which seems about as much contact as he can handle. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

They proceed _not_ to talk for a while, just sipping their drinks, until the waitress brings them two plates of waffles and related paraphernalia. Tim stares at his, and Jessica starts to eat.

“Come on,” she says, her mouth full.

He starts picking away at it. For a few minutes she just eats and watches him do the same.

“What do you do?” she asks bluntly. “Like, when you're not... dealing with...”

Tim blinks at her, looking genuinely startled. “Uh.” He eats some more waffle, stalling. “I, uh... not... not too much.” He coughs once, heavy and hard, and she jolts slightly, looking at him. She remembers him coughing a little when they met, and it's all too familiar—she coughs like that herself sometimes. Ordinarily she'd blame it on his smoking habit, but given what else they seem to have in common...

He recovers and immediately goes back to eating, and she determines to move on. “Did you meet Jay in college?”

He looks openly uncomfortable with this, but if he's not going to talk about whatever he wanted to talk about, she's going to make small talk. His pick.

“Uh, sort of,” he says. “Yeah.” Another break for eating. “It's mostly just... everything else that... you know.”

She doesn't know, actually, or did he forget her memory is full of holes? Wakes up in a hotel with no idea how she got there, months of time gone. Wakes up by the side of the road, no idea how that happened either. This whole chunk of her life gone, nothing ever the same after that. She remembers Amy, who is gone. Jay, who she can't see. Alex, though she can't really remember his face, and all it does is call up a faint sense of dread. She has nightmares but rarely remembers them. Headaches and coughing fits and occasional time loss, nothing like before. And then Tim shows up outside a laundromat, tells her that he and Jay and Alex were mixed up in something dangerous, too dangerous to even talk about, and she got mixed into it as well, and it's left all of their memories fragmented, but it's okay now, nothing else is going to happen, and no one is going to come after her. If we can just get Jay out of the hospital, if you can just help me lie to these cops. We can all be left alone.

He had her pegged. That was what she wanted, after all this time. Just to let that slide. To be left alone.

So yeah, this 'everything else' is basically nothing to her. She has this impression that people are dead and there's something vaguely unearthly about all of it, but what's she supposed to do? Dig herself in deeper? Get just as fucked up as Tim and Jay clearly are?

So she eats her waffles and shrugs, to indicate not quite 'yeah, I know what you mean,' but a nice neutral 'sure, whatever'.

“What was your major?” she asks. Doggedly ignoring the rest. Normal questions only.

“Oh, um.” He perks up, just a little. Not at the question, she suspects, but that it's not some _other_ question. “Music. But I... never really finished. Stuff got in the way.”

“Yeah.” She nods. “Me too.”

He looks at her, like she's no longer a problem he's avoiding, but a person. And that's kind of nice to see. “What'd you study?” he asks around another cough, fist going up to his mouth. This time it isn't just the one—lasts a little longer, but he's determined to pretend it's not happening, so she continues not to make note of it.

“Mm—” she swallows a mouthful; “—philosophy?” She smiles, embarrassed. “My dad was a philosophy professor and I just went that route too. It was kind of a family joke. Jessica Locke, you know?”

“Oh,” he says, and then snickers vaguely. She has no idea if he gets it or not. “Yeah.”

She smirks and picks at the remainder of her waffles. “I have no idea what I was gonna do with it, but. Guess it doesn't matter now.” She shrugs. “Right now I'm working in a call center.”

“Oh, really?” He looks up at that, as if he's actually interested.

“It's terrible,” she says. “People just call to complain about menial shit and I have to be polite to them all day. I do not recommend it.”

“I just got a job working a switchboard,” he says. “So. Too late, kinda.”

“Oh my god.” She laughs at that, a real laugh, holy shit, it's been ages. “I'm so sorry.”

He actually cracks a smile. It's brief and small, but it's there. That's nice.

She rests her chin in her hand. “Well, I'll have to give you my work number, so you can call if you get bored.”

“Well, it's a nightshift, so.”

“I work nights sometimes.” She shrugs, pulling a notepad and pen out of her purse. “It's a 24 hour center and my hours are flexible. So you never know. I'm serious, they don't really monitor the calls, just us, because it's a piece of shit company, so... I can fake a conversation and you can tell me all about your exciting life as an operator.”

She holds out a scrap of paper with her number on it and only then does she notice his expression. There's been a dramatic shift, from half-smile to an intense, sort of distant stare at the floor.

“Did I say something wrong?” she says, softening immediately, unable to keep from sounding worried.

“No.” He shakes his head and then starts coughing again, curling his arm around to muffle it into the crook of his elbow. He struggles to talk through it: “No, it's fine. Yeah. Thanks. I might do that.” He takes the paper with his free hand and stuff it in his pocket, then hunches over the table, the coughing getting worse and more violent. She can see how it shakes his entire body, how physically draining it is, and it makes her throat ache to hear it, and it reminds her of how fucking exhausting it is when she coughs like that, even though it's never like _this_.

There's no more ignoring it. “Tim?” she says worriedly, sitting forward. “Are you okay?”

“I'm—” He can't speak, still hacking up a storm, oh god, is he going to be sick? The workers are looking at them now, like they're afraid they have an unfolding lawsuit on their hands. Jessica ignores them, standing up, putting her hand on Tim's back.

“It's okay,” she says softly. “It'll be over soon.”

He shudders, whimpering once, and it seems like it might be over; he's left curled up and sucking in deep, strangled breaths, but then it begins again, even worse this time.

She's about to ask if he wants to step outside when a voice barks out from across the mostly-empty restaurant: “Man, shut the fuck _up!”_

Jessica's jaw sets. Her chest tightens up, her mouth draws into a thin line, and she can feel herself making the same look of disgust she has whenever someone is being particularly obnoxious on the phone at work. She turns, slowly, to look at the perpetrator.

Some dude, probably not much older than them, some asshole Alabama redneck, sitting with his redneck buddies, scowling at them from across the Denny's.

Tim can't stop it, though he is trying, clamping his hands over his mouth and lowering himself down like he wants to disappear, hide his head between his legs.

Jessica stares back at the guys, unflinching. Gradually their attention moves from Tim to her.

“What are _you_ lookin' at, bitch?” the first guy snaps.

“Dude, what is _wrong_ with you?” another demands of Tim. “That's fucking sick, man, get outta here with that.”

“Shut up.” Jessica speaks so crisply, so abruptly and so definitively, that for a moment everyone just drops silent. Even the cough is wearing down now, and she can feel Tim looking up at her, probably bewildered, probably mortified. She doesn't bother looking back at him. She takes a single step forward, eyes on the assholes. “If we _wanted_ your opinions,” she says, “we would have _asked_.”

The first guy looks totally lost for a moment before he starts laughing his ass off. Another of his buddies says, “Holy shit, dude. Hey, control your woman, man, before I have to teach her a lesson.”

Jessica doesn't even think about it. She reaches out, cold as a fucking cucumber, and knocks her plate of half-finished food onto the floor. It shatters, loud and startling, and she looks back up at them, as if to say _your move_.

Another silence. Someone in the back is _definitely_ calling the police now.

“Bitch, you're crazy,” growls mister 'lesson', getting up.

“Hey—” Tim blurts, Jessica's not sure whether he's trying to pull her back or belatedly coming to her defense, but she doesn't care. She's moving toward the man, this piece of shit asshole who keeps calling her that _word_ and makes fucking assumptions about her _proclivities_ and tells one of the only friends she has (and that is really, truly pathetic, and that makes her just about as angry as anything) to stop _coughing uncontrollably_.

She's done. She's had a long week, a longer year, and she's fucking done.

She picks up speed because nobody was expecting her to actually _run_ at this guy, and she punches him right in the balls.

She's done it before, though she doesn't fully remember.

“Shit!” Fucker goes down, squealing like the pig he is. “Fuck you, you cunt! I'm gonna fuck you up!”

“Too late for that,” she says with a voice like dry ice.

Tim's hand wraps around her wrist and pulls her hard toward the door. He's running, and she runs too, allows herself to be dragged along until they're outside, where they break contact and cut fast across the parking lot.

“What the _fuck_!” Tim snaps, running toward his car. “Are you crazy?!”

“No _shit_!” She's laughing. She's _laughing_. She can't stop laughing. That felt so goddamn _good_.

“Jesus Christ!” He reaches his car and stops, breathing raggedly, looking back. She reaches hers and glances back even as she unlocks the driver door. The guys are scrambling, one of them looking like he's gonna come after them. Some of the poor employees are intervening.

“Split up,” she says breathlessly, climbing into her car. “I'll call you on the road.”

“What?!” He's already following suit. “Jessica, what the fuck!”

“I'll call you!” she insists, slamming her door, revving up the engine and driving away with a screech of tires, cutting off their lone pursuer long enough for Tim to get into his car.

She drives up the interstate, all her nerves electrified, pulse thrumming in her ears, grinning. The burn of adrenaline feels so good, like it makes up for so, so much. She hasn't felt this alive in a long time. This isn't necessarily a good thing, she knows that. She can deal with the fallout, the inevitable mortified regret, later. Right now, she punched an asshole in the nuts and it was _awesome_.

Her phone goes off and she fumbles to answer it, switching on speakerphone.

“What happened to calling me?” Tim sounds just as keyed up, though a little less happy about it.

“Sorry!” She makes a conscious effort to slow her driving. This would be the worst time to get pulled over. “I was gonna, I just—”

“ _Jessica_.” Tim's tone cuts through the blaze of euphoria a little bit. “What the hell was that about?”

She sobers, just a little, swallowing, her grin becoming a small, satisfied smile. “They were assholes,” she says. “I didn't like the way they were talking to you.”

“You didn't have to—”

“Oh, fuck them!” She sits back, picking up her phone to speak more clearly into it. “Tim, I'm so tired of just... letting shit happen to me. I'm not gonna do it anymore. I'm not. I don't really know what's going on with you and Jay, but... as far as I can tell, we're all really lucky to be _alive_. So I'm not wasting any more time. If someone talks to you like that, or to _me_ like that, he's getting punched.”

“You—” He breaks off. She can practically hear him sorting this out, struggling with how to respond. She feels kind of emotional now, the impact of what she's just said hitting her full in the chest. It feels like a weight lifting from her shoulders. She swallows thickly, struggling to maintain composure. When Tim talks again, he's a little softer and more level. “You didn't have to do that for me. I mean, no question, they deserved it. I just... you could have gotten hurt.”

“Nah.” She smiles and sets the phone back down to wipe at her eyes. “Nah, you would have helped me out.”

He doesn't answer that. He says nothing for a while. She settles, coming back down, her hands shaking.

“Sorry it ended like that,” she says. “Let's meet up again sometime soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Not at Denny's.”

She laughs. “No.”

“And you owe me. Cause I left a _lot_ of money on the table for this. Like at least twice what we owed.”

Whew. That's good at least. She kind of forgot about paying in the chaos of everything.

“Done,” she says. “Next time I'll take you somewhere super fancy.”

“Okay.” He sounds sort of awed, confused. “Okay. Uh. See you around, then, I guess. Goodnight, Jessica.”

“Night, Tim.”

He hangs up and she tosses her phone into the seat beside her. She's still elated, a little panicky, but she can sort that shit out when she gets home. Next time things will be different. You don't survive bolting out of a Denny's with someone and not become better friends. She has a friend now. She has a real _friend_.

What a night. What a lovely night.

\\\\\

Tim is still shaking when he gets home. It takes him way too many attempts to light his cigarette. He leans back against his car and smokes for a while, letting his nerves settle.

He doesn't know what to do with that, with someone who would do something so totally insane for him. For an offense that wasn't even that big of a deal—at least the initial offenses weren't, the shit they were saying to _her_ was another story, but still.

Everything she said over the phone, though, made so much sense. Taking back what's hers, letting herself rage against the universe for what's been done to her, what she doesn't, can't understand. He admires that.

He realizes he actually kind of can't wait to see her again. As long as it doesn't go like _that_.

It's been so long since he felt that.

He smiles faintly to himself, drops his cigarette butt and rubs it out under his shoe. He walks up to his house, unlocks his door, lets himself in quietly. Jay is hopefully asleep.

As he slips past the bedroom, he sees the door is open, the light is on. Well, then. He takes a look.

Jay is not there.

He searches through the house, first just uneasily, and then in a steadily increasing panic. Everything is in disarray. Cabinets, drawers, boxes opened, stuff strewn about. And Jay is not _anywhere_.

Jay is _gone_.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

He grabs his flashlight, just like old times, goddammit, godfuckingdammit, and bolts across the house and into the garage. Jay's car is gone. And the toolkit Tim's never used, that was almost rusted shut, which normally sits dormant in the far corner underneath a workbench covered in clutter, is sitting out, opened.

Jay found the fucking camera.

Tim rushes back to his car, doing the math in his head. He's been gone for a little over an hour. Jay can't have gotten far. Doesn't much matter when there's a ton of places he could be, and who knows how quickly something terrible could happen.

Tim slams his car into gear and he drives.

 


	14. RETURN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 79 6f 75 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 61 6c 77 61 79 73 20 62 65 6c 6f 6e 67 20 74 6f 20 6d 65

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> possible triggers in this chapter:  
> -strangulation  
> -vomiting  
> -violent/graphic coughing  
> -description of seizure  
> -major dissociation/mind invasion

Memories float back sometimes, little pieces of things scrubbed out, wiped away, long forgotten; they mingle with memories still intact, or only slightly extrapolated from what he saw in the footage that didn't burn. He receives them threaded through his nightmares, reliving as well as watching (and what's the difference, after a point).

Tonight he's in Alex's house, receiving two heavy bags of tapes—heavier than they should be, difficult to carry, more than two now, more and more—every time he thinks he has all of them in hand he realizes there's another he needs to pick up, and so on, this is getting awkward, he just wants to get out the door. Alex is saying something about how they will never speak of this again, and how this isn't all of them but you don't need to see the others, and Jay knows that's a _lie_ but he also knows he's not supposed to know that yet.

It's so difficult to get them out the door, he's starting to regret that he ever did this, why does he want these so bad, they're so heavy, there's no way he can deal with them, no _way_. He should give them back but Alex doesn't want them now, and he just promised never to bring them up.

He takes them out, one by one, to his car - his car is already so full, why is there so much _crap_ in it, branches and blocks of cement and oh look, more tapes, he already has so many tapes! Why does he need _more_? But he promised to help so he keeps going back, in and out, getting each bag while Alex paces around like an angry cat, waiting for him to leave.

“Just one more,” Jay tells him, he knows it was here somewhere, where was it? Alex is silent, not saying anything, and Jay's looking at him thinking _I should just go_ but then—Jay's not holding a camera but it's like he zooms in on it anyway—he spots it. The little rectangular bulge in Alex's pocket.

He knew it was there.

“I just need the last one,” he says, holding out his hand. “Please?”

Alex leaves the room without answering him, and Jay follows him, bewildered, hurt, frustrated - irrational spikes of emotion. “Alex!” he says, where's he gone—there, into his old bedroom ~~where a box of burn victims sits quietly in the closet~~. “Alex, please—”

“ _ **I told you not to follow me!”**_

Alex is on him in seconds, taller than Jay and stronger as well, holding him down by the throat, in the tunnel now, pressing in on him, his eyes glassy and not _right_ , angry and alien. Why is he doing this? Jay struggles but he can't get free, every time he tries to fight back his hands slip, he's so weak, _why is he so fucking weak?_

The world clips and distorts around him; he sees himself, saturation all the way down, contrast all the way up, every pixel sharp, fizzling black-and-white static, his features barely discernible as his head lolls back in surrender; something, a hand, a shadow, creeping up over his throat to drown him out—

 

Wake up.

Wake, little beast.

He sucks in a sharp, painful breath and pushes himself upright, his shoulder burning, his skin soaked in cold sweat. He's tangled up in the bedsheets and it takes him a minute to dislodge himself, fighting his way out ineptly and impatiently until he's jostled himself onto the floor.

He gets up, his legs shaky, and staggers to the bathroom, where he just manages to reach the toilet before he throws up, curled around the porcelain bowl until he's gasping and he has nothing left to give.

He drags himself to his feet, flushes, rinses, washes his face, stares at his dripping reflection.

What time is it? What _day_ is it? Where's Tim?

He roams out into the house. 2:54 AM. Tim's nowhere.

“Tim?” His voice is shaky, cracked, sick-sounding. He knows it's hopeless, Tim's car is gone, but he keeps searching anyway. “Tim?”

You are alone, little one.

Jay stops short, fingers slamming painfully against the counter, trying to grip it to keep himself from going down but he can't, he folds, he crumples. Head ringing, left curled over himself, weight pressing down on his scrawny shoulders, burning buzzing white noise in his ears.

He has left you.

His hands claw at his hair, grasping, digging, trying to block out that iron spike of static, a white hot sensation searing into him, spreading over his skin. _Get it out, get it out. No no no no get out get_ _ **out!**_

He has hidden it from you.

“Tim—!” he cries, half-sobbing with the effort of pushing his own voice past the one in his head, go away, leave me _alone_

This is your only chance.

The sob becomes a cough, wrenching his whole body, tearing at his throat, stabbing right under his sternum, making his back ache. He can taste blood. Pills. He needs Tim's pills. He starts crawling, inching back toward the hallway, to the room Tim's letting him use, dragging his body with such effort he feels like he might pass out again, and he still feels that weight pressing on him, curling around him—he struggles hard against it, feeling it wrap around his throat, fill his nostrils and his lungs with smoke and fire

Find it.

He collapses, his muscles seizing violently, every limb tightening, his whole body straining against itself. He's being ripped apart. Ripped away.

Someone please help me, he tries to scream, and he can't make a sound.

Recover your instrument, little beast.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You wake up different.

This body is so small and so fragile. Strange. What purpose does it serve.

It is an observer.

Not a weapon, not a blunt instrument. This one has _eyes_.

Fingers touch its face. Soft and scratchy. Eyes very big. Big enough to see. See everything.

Find the instrument.

You search the house. There are many corners where the camera could hide and you haven't much time. You are efficient. You are pointed in your tenacity. This is the primary utility of the observer. You scuttle through the rooms and pick clean the cabinets, closets, drawers. In every corner, under every piece of furniture. Everything that can be closed, you open, including doors.

This one leads outside. There is its car. Your car. You will need that, but first—

A small rusted box in the far corner. You bend down, reach for it, pull it out. Open it up. There it is. There you are.

Battery is dying. Charger in the car. A tape inside. One will suffice.

You climb into the car, set the camera to charge. Turn the car on with slow movements. Careful. Steady.

You know where you are going. You must return to where It is calling you. You must capture every moment in your instrument's lens, such that others will see, others will know. This is your utility.

You drive. Cautious but not slow. It is a long way from here.

 


End file.
